


My Love, My Game, My Vocation

by jaradel



Series: Sherlock / Real Genius AU [1]
Category: Real Genius (1985), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Boys Kissing, Consensual, Crossover, Humor, Implied Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen-year-old John Watson is one of the youngest students to be admitted to winter term at Pacific Tech. That's not all - Professor Moriarty has chosen John as the new lead for his most important project, where he'll be working with young physics genius Sherlock Holmes. But nothing is quite what John expects when he finds out he's rooming with Sherlock... Oh, and there's an evil plot to thwart!</p><p>Sherlock / Real Genius AU crack!fic written for <a href="http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/EarlGreyTea68">EarlGreyTea68's</a> <a href="http://earlgreytea68.livejournal.com/420191.html">AU Ficathon of Absurdity</a>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Author's Notes

This fic started as a response to [EarlGreyTea68](../users/earlgreytea68)’s [AU Ficathon of Absurdity](http://earlgreytea68.livejournal.com/420191.html), wherein we try to come up with some of the craziest AUs and crossover fics we can think of, and then actually _write_ them. I don’t know how or why this popped into my brain, but the more I thought about it, the more I started to rewrite scenes from the movie in my head, and the more it seemed to work. _Real Genius_  is one of my absolute favourite movies from my childhood, and in my mind, some of Val Kilmer’s finest acting. If you haven’t seen the movie, be warned that it does take place in 1985 and the science is potentially sketchy, but it’s a great movie with an epic scene at the end that just about everyone of a certain age knows, even if they don’t recall the film it’s from.

A few notes about this fic:

  1. I am keeping the original setting and era; in writing this fic I’m striking while the iron is hot and it’s easier to keep the characters American and the year 1985 so I don’t have to do a lot of conversion.
  2. There will be many instances where I have carried dialogue from the movie wholesale into my fic (the transcript I used is [here](http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/seaQuestDSV2032/RealGenius.html)), as this is basically Real Genius with Sherlock characters, so don’t expect to see any ACD or Moffat/Gatiss/Thompson-style plotting here. In other instances, I’ve carried dialogue and situations from Sherlock over to my fic (using [Ariane Devere’s wonderfully detailed transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/36505.html)). For the most part, there is a one-to-one correlation between movie characters and Sherlock characters, though some scenes have been omitted, dialogue and situations have occasionally been given to other characters, at least one character is an OC, and relationships are altered to better fit with the Sherlock ‘verse.
  3. The ages of the Sherlock characters have been altered to more closely align with the ages of the movie characters. Therefore, characters like Sherlock and John will be significantly younger than their BBC counterparts, whereas other characters will be closer to their Sherlock ages.
  4. If you’re looking for smut, there probably won’t be any (but I won’t say that definitively – I’m not done writing this yet!). That being said, I can almost guarantee that there will be a bit of snogging between a younger teen and an older teen (completely consensual), so I am tagging this fic as Underage for anyone who may be triggered by such scenes.
  5. Fic title and chapter titles shamelessly lifted from Chaz Jankel’s song “Number One,” which features in the movie.
  6. THIS IS PURE CRACK. It’s also unbeta’ed, again because I wanted to publish it quickly. Please, do not take this too seriously. I sure as hell am not.



 


	2. Number one is a hard time in the making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Moriarty in any universe is cold and calculating. Sherlock Holmes in any universe is perpetually bored. Nothing can save Moriarty, but Sherlock's world is about to become a little less tedious...

_USAF Baskerville Research Facility, somewhere in the California desert_

                The room is dark. Five men sit around a table. Four of them, from their conservative style of dress and bearing, are clearly US Government staffers. The fifth is not. He is not a particularly tall man, nor particularly short; there is nothing inherently striking about his dark brown hair and brown – almost black - eyes. But there is something about his smile that never reaches his eyes and suggests a cold ruthlessness behind the otherwise benign expression on his face. Nothing about this man should be even remotely threatening, and yet all the staffers save one, who are at least twenty years older than him, regard him with an almost timid deference.

                A video is playing on the projector screen in the windowless room where these five men are gathered. It depicts a demonstration of a human target being vaporized by a compact, high-powered laser attached to a modified shuttle. The video ends, and the lights come up.

                “Now all we have to do is build it,” says a tall, balding man by the name of Adler.

                “Does the President, or some responsible agency, know about this?” says a dark-skinned man sitting across from Adler. The civilian in the room smiles at him. A look of fear briefly crosses the dark-skinned man’s face as he catches the almost feral grin.

                “We’re on a need-to-know basis, George,” says Adler laconically. “Besides, the CIA is a responsible agency.”

                “Well I do think they need to know,” George insists. “You’re going to single-handedly cause a major escalation.”

                A man shifts in his seat next to George. “Our studies indicate that this type of weapon is totally useless in warfare,” he says.

                Adler grins. “It’s not intended for use in your kind of warfare, Roy. It’s the perfect peace time weapon. That’s why it’s secret.”

                George frowns. “So it’s both immoral, and unethical,” he says with mild distaste.

                Roy grins. “So when do we get it?”

                Adler turns to the young civilian. “Dr. Moriarty?”

                Dr. James Moriarty sits up and fixes his gaze on the older man. “We’re working on an issue with the energy source. Shouldn’t take long to fix,” he says confidently, his smile more of a sneer.

                Adler is not amused. “I don’t want to hear about your _issues,_ Dr. Moriarty. We have plans for your little ray-gun this summer. We need it successful. I don’t need any delays that might jeopardize the project’s success. Do I make myself clear?”

                “Clear as vodka, Dave,” Moriarty says, all traces of his smile gone.

                “We need a working weapon by the end of June,” Adler reiterates.

                “Consider it done,” Moriarty acknowledges. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I apparently have a laser to build.” He stands up and walks out, not waiting for any acknowledgement.

                “Small-minded government drones,” Moriarty mutters to himself as he walks down the corridor, back to the guard’s desk. He drops his badge on the counter and steps out into the bright California sunshine. _Time for fresh blood on the project,_ he thinks as he gets into his Mercedes.

* * *

 

_Darlington Laboratories, San Diego, CA_

Sherlock Holmes is incredibly bored.

                The gangly nineteen-year-old is in his final semester at Pacific Tech, and he’s been pressured by both his academic advisor and his parents to start looking for a job, which is how he finds himself at possibly one of the most _boring_ research facilities he’s ever had the displeasure of visiting. However, if it gets everyone off his back, the visit will have served his purpose. It’s not like anyone _really_ needs to know that he intends to enter a completely different field of work when he graduates, one that doesn’t even exist yet.

                Sherlock is walking next to an older gentleman ( _mid-forties, married but not happily, wearing a suit that went out of style at the beginning of the decade, sleeping with his assistant_ ) who is prattling on and on about what an _exciting_ place Darlington is. Beside him, Sherlock looks woefully – and, as it happens, purposefully – out of place. Plaid Chuck Taylors adorn his feet, he’s wearing skinny black jeans that leave little about his lithe frame to the imagination, a white t-shirt with the words “I  <3TOXIC WASTE” emblazoned across the front, and a tweed blazer. His dark brown curls are in a perpetual state of disarray, and black Wayfarers hide his shockingly pale eyes. The man and the teen walk up a set of stairs into the main building of the research facility and are greeted by a stocky older man with a grim expression, and a curvaceous brunette who is eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. Sherlock rolls his eyes behind his Wayfarers, before pushing them up to rest in his bird’s nest of curls.

                “Guys, I want you to meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my assistant, Anthea,” says the man. Anthea extends her hand, and Sherlock shakes it for the absolute minimum amount of time necessary for social convention.

                “Nice to meet you,” he says cordially, eyeing Anthea carefully.

                “Likewise,” she responds, sizing him up as well.

                “And this is Mike Dodd,” the man says to Sherlock, gesturing to the stocky older man.

                Sherlock feigns awe. “Dr. Dodd,” he breathes.

                “The one who just designed our brand new TEL-COMM satellite,” the man says proudly as Sherlock and Dr. Dodd shake hands.

                “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. TEL-COMM. Isn’t that the satellite that’s raining debris all over Europe?” Sherlock says, the feigned awe in his voice now tinged with sarcasm.

                 Dr. Dodd is less than amused. “Hmph,” he says, and stalks off. Sherlock grins at his retreating back. The man next to him clears his throat in an attempt to dissipate the awkward silence.

                 “Anthea can show you around and answer any questions you might have about benefits, dress codes…and I’ll see you back upstairs in my office in a little bit. Okay?”

                 Sherlock doesn’t bother looking at the man, just gives him a dismissive wave. “Fine,” he says, locking eyes with Anthea again.

                 The man frowns momentarily, then smiles with forced cheer. “Anthea, take good care of this young man. He’s one of the ten finest minds in the country!” he crows, walking away.

                 Sherlock smirks. “Someday I hope to be two of them,” he drawls.

                 Anthea raises an eyebrow. “I was warned about you,” she says in measured tones.

                 “I’m sure you were. I don’t even need to guess by whom,” he replies. “Now, shall we get this over with?”

                 Anthea lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Follow me,” she says. Sherlock follows, smirking once again.


	3. Number two is the one plane I'm not taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson arrives at Pacific Tech and meets his new roommate, the young physics genius Sherlock Holmes, who is nothing like he expects. And why is there a man living in their closet?

          John Watson, all of fifteen years old, is still wrapping his brain around the fact that he is now a student at Pacific Tech. Everything had happened so fast: one minute he was an overachieving senior in high school (skipped two grades and was still top of his class); the next, one of the youngest freshmen ever in one of the most prestigious scientific institutions in the country. Not only that, but Dr. Moriarty was assigning John to his personal research team, and he'd be working with Sherlock Holmes, the young physics genius, who himself had been admitted to Pacific Tech at an age when most kids were still getting used to navigating lockers and multiple classrooms. Now Holmes was a senior, and John couldn't wait to meet him – after all, Holmes was a legend in the National Physics Club.  _Finally,_  John thinks.  _I’ll finally be around people who understand me._

          John walks down a set of stone steps to a courtyard where the freshman tea is being held. He sees several other freshmen who look so much older than him, even though they are at most three or four years older. John flattens his short blond hair and nervously licks his thin lips. He is smaller, in every way, than these other students. He has yet to hit his growth spurt, and despairs that his current height of five foot seven is as good as it’s going to get for him. His frame would be stocky if he had any decent amount of muscle mass; unfortunately, he’s never been the athletic type, so his barrel chest is at odds with his comparatively thin arms. He straightens his tie out of long-standing habit and takes a deep breath, approaching the small gathering. A silver-haired man in his late forties spies John and waves him over.

          “Ah, you must be John Watson, Professor Moriarty’s bright star.”

          John blushes. “Yes, sir.”

          The man offers his hand. “Dr. Gregory Lestrade,” he says as John shakes his hand. “I hear you’ve already been assigned to his project. We’re told to expect great things from you.”

          “I hope so, sir,” John replies, feeling slightly embarrassed from the praise.

          “Oh, a bit of advice…” Lestrade says.

          John takes out a notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his blazer. “Yes sir?” he prompts, pen at the ready to record the dean’s words of wisdom.

          “Always…never…forget to check your references.”

          John looks up and puts the pen and pad away, without having written a single word. “Ah… right,” he says. “Well, I must be going. Pleasure to meet you,” he says, scurrying off. Lestrade watches him leave with a bemused expression.

          John makes his way across campus to his dorm, where he’d dropped off his suitcases earlier. The common room is a sea of humanity, and John is clearly out of place among the older boys in their t-shirts and board shorts, the girls in various states of dress – or undress – and him, in his shirt, tie, blazer, khakis and penny loafers. He ignores some rude comments and finds his way back to his dorm room, where he discovers – to his dismay – that his suitcases are empty. He looks about the room for some hint as to where his clothes have ended up, and his eyes rest on the mess – no, the  _disaster_  – on the other side of the room. The bed is unmade, dresser drawers are hanging open, clothes are strewn everywhere, and every available surface covered in papers, various biological and chemical experiments of questionable safety, and homemade mechanical gadgets that might be more at home in a Rube Goldberg exhibit – or the Tower of London, John can’t decide.

          As John surveys his roommate’s side of the room, he notices movement in his peripheral vision. He turns to see a tall, impeccably-dressed man in a bespoke three-piece suit (with perhaps too much of a fondness for sweets given the tightness of his waistcoat) walk into the room. John starts to say something, but the man completely ignores him, opens the closet door, steps inside, and shuts the door behind him.

          John is completely perplexed now. He walks over to the closet and opens the door. “Hello?” he says to the clothes hanging there.  _What the hell is going on around here?_  he wonders. He steps inside and examines the sides and back of the closet, but there is no clue as to how the man disappeared. Frustrated, he steps out and shuts the door.

          “Would you be prepared if gravity reversed itself?” says a deep baritone voice behind him. John whirls around to find a tall, skinny boy in his late teens, wearing a t-shirt, black jeans and Chucks, doing a handstand against the wall. His dark brown curls hang away from his head, giving him the appearance of having a dark halo.

          John regains his composure. “Well, um…” he stammers, wondering if he’s somehow walked into the middle of an existing conversation.

          The teen’s feet pitch forward and touch the ground, and he rights himself as gracefully as a cat, even shaking his head to resettle his mass of curls. He turns to face John. “The only thing I haven’t figured out is how to keep all the change in my pockets.” He grins wickedly, an almost lascivious glint in his pale blue – nearly translucent – eyes, and snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it – nudity.” He saunters past a now completely-flustered John, who can’t help but stare at this very strange, yet somehow striking, young man.

          Not that it had mattered back home, since John had very few friends to begin with, but he’d known for a while that if he were ever lucky enough to get a date, he’d prefer that the person in question be male, and not female. It was not something he had ever told anyone, especially after his sister Harry had come out to their rather conservative parents a couple years ago, and it had not gone well. John kept his own sexual preference to himself, and figured that by the time it mattered, he’d be on his own anyway. Suddenly that timeline has moved up as he regards the slender man now sitting in a swivel chair amidst the clutter on the opposite side of the room, playing with some sort of mechanical contraption.

          John clears his throat and remembers the empty suitcases. “I was here earlier this morning and…”

          The teen interrupts him. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?” he says.

          “No-“

          “Good. I have a very precise filing system. For example, this device is filed under H, for ‘toy’.”

          John raises an eyebrow. “What is it?” he says with trepidation.

          “It’s yet another in a long list of diversions in an attempt to avoid responsibility.” The teen sets the device down and places a gyroscopic-looking sphere on it. He picks up a remote control and presses the levers, sending the sphere into the air.

          John frowns, ploughing ahead with his original line of questioning. “I dropped off my luggage earlier and now all my bags are empty,” he says, frustration and anger creeping into his voice.

         The teen appears to ignore him as he manipulates the remote control, sending the sphere flying around the room. “You see, John, I used to be you. And lately I’ve been missing me, so I asked Professor Moriarty if I could room with me again, and he said ‘Sure’. So I put all your clothes away in the bottom drawer there, except for your blazers and a few hideous sweaters – I threw those out. Duck!” The teen says, as the sphere careens toward John’s head. John ducks just in time.

          “Nice reflexes. I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he says, extending a hand.

          John wilts. “Oh no,” he says, trying to ignore Sherlock’s outstretched hand, pale and elegant, with long fingers.  _Never meet your heroes,_  he thinks glumly,  _you’ll always be disappointed._

         “Oh yes – duck again!” The sphere barrels toward John again, and he ducks as it shatters the window and flies out over the quad. Sherlock runs to the broken window and shouts, “Look out, it’s heading for the gas tanks!” He grabs John and pushes him to the floor, dropping down next to him to protect himself from an apparently imminent explosion, then raises up on his elbows calmly, as if he’s lying on the beach. He turns to John. “Would you classify that as a launch problem, or a design problem?”

         John is speechless. This strange kid – this  _complete madman_  – is the great physics genius Sherlock Holmes. Dear Lord, what has he gotten himself into?


	4. Number three goes on one knee for a token

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim receives some unpleasant news; John meets the other students on Professor Moriarty's team.

          Jim Moriarty is tired of the noise. He sits in the study of his house, unable to think for the din of the remodeling going on around him. He wouldn’t even be here right now, preferring his office on campus during the day, but David Adler insisted on meeting with him this afternoon, and as one of the deans of the university, it wouldn’t do to have a DoD staffer waltzing into his office. So Jim waits, and tries to shut out the incessant pounding from the day laborers outside his home.

          The doorbell rings. Jim rouses himself out of his mind as he rises from his chair, crossing from his study to the front door, and opens it.

          “Hello Jim,” David Adler says.

          “Get in here before someone sees you,” Jim mutters, moving aside for Adler to enter. He shuts the door and leads his guest to the study, shutting that door behind them for good measure.

          “A little short on the pleasantries, aren't we?” Adler taunts as he sits down in an armchair in front of Jim’s desk.

          Jim circles around his desk and sits down in his high-backed swivel chair, looking for all the world like a king on his throne addressing one of his subjects. “You’re the one who called this meeting, so talk. I have papers to grade,” Jim replies languidly.

          Adler sits back in his chair, left ankle crossed over right knee. “We’re falling way behind, Jim, and my superiors have moved up the timeline. They want a working model in four months, not eighteen.”

          Jim turns in his chair, a distinct air of boredom around him. “You can’t dictate innovation, Dave. If you want this done right, it has to be on my timeline, not yours.”

          “That’s not how this works. The customer dictates the timeline. I represent the customer. You _will_ provide a working model in four months or the project is cancelled,” Adler says in a tone that, for most people, would brook no argument.

          Jim, however, is not most people. He swivels back around to face Adler. “Good, fast, and cheap, Dave. Pick two of the three. You can’t have them all.”

          Adler uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. He fixes a calculating stare on the professor. “Let me put it to you another way, Jim. When a project is cancelled, the finance guys always run an audit to see how the money was spent.” Adler pauses to give his next words greater effect. “And I’m pretty sure that your home improvements are not covered under R&D for this project. Do we understand each other now?”

          Jim’s face is a picture of cold fury. “Perfectly, Dave.”

          Adler stands. “Right then. I’m glad we were able to come to an agreement on this.” He waits, expecting Jim to see him out, but Jim makes no move to rise. “I’ll just see myself out, shall I?”

          Jim glares daggers at Adler’s retreating back.

* * *

          John enters the Applied Physics building and begins to look for the laser lab, but his thoughts are still consumed by his mad roommate. How was it that one of the brightest young minds in history was also one of the most irresponsible people he’d ever met? And why did that irresponsible genius have to come in such an attractive package? John shook his head as if to clear that last thought from his mind. _No_ , he told himself sternly. _Not getting involved with your roommate. Not even considering it. Way more than a bit not good._

          John is so engrossed in his own thoughts that he walks right past the lab, and has to backtrack. He opens the door to a large and cluttered room. In the center of the lab on a large workbench is the laser assembly, and three older students are standing around it. The room itself is ringed by industrial racks filled with various pieces of equipment, some of which are connected to the laser, presumably providing the necessary power. The room is dark, and the students are wearing goggles. The student standing closest to the door, who is just a few inches taller than John with a weaselly-looking face and floppy brown hair, gestures to him without even looking at him.

          “Just put the sandwiches down and go,” the student says dismissively.

          John blinks, confused. “Who, me?”

          “No, Yoda. Yeah, you!”

          “Well, I don’t have any,” John says, turning to shut the door.

          “Brains?” quips a mocha-skinned girl with long, tightly curled brown hair.

          “Sandwiches,” John says, feeling thoroughly wrong-footed. _What’s going on here, did I get the wrong room?_ he wonders.

          “Well then what good are you,” the brown-haired boy sneers.

          “What are we supposed to eat?” the girl says with exasperation.

          John says nothing, mouth opening and closing like a fish. The brown haired boy turns on the light and moves to stand in front of John, looking down at the blond with disgust. “Listen, are you or are you not from the restaurant?” he asks, his voice dripping with condescension.

          John frowns, but refuses to let this arrogant douchebag intimidate him. He pulls himself up to his full height. “I’m John Watson. Dr. Moriarty told me to come up here.”

         Arrogant Douchebag pulls off his goggles, gives John an appraising look, and walks back around the workbench to power down the laser. “So you’re the new stud, are you?”

          “How do you mean?” John says tightly.

          “Stud. Hotshot. Brain. You’re twelve years old, aren't you?” says the other boy, a shorter student with a light brown buzzcut.

          “I’m fifteen,” John replies coldly, standing opposite the three students, the workbench in between them. “Are you expecting him?”

          “Yeah, any minute now. Can I get you something, a balloon, maybe?” Arrogant Douchebag says, sniggering at his own lame joke.

          “I’m supposed to take a look at your work to date. Check it over,” John says.

          Arrogant Douchebag’s lip curls. “Check it over? For what?” he says, clearly insulted by the very idea of a child checking his work for him.

          “Mistakes, I guess. Dr. Moriarty said you were stuck,” John replies coolly.

          Arrogant Douchebag comes back around to face John, stooping down a bit as if John is a small child who needs to be taught a lesson. John stands his ground, raising his chin fractionally in defiance. “No, no, no. Let’s get something very clear here, okay? When Jim’s not here you do what I say. It goes from God, to Jim, to me. Get it?” He glares at John in a laughable attempt to look menacing. John merely holds the older boy’s stare, not giving an inch.

          At that moment, the door opens behind John. Arrogant Douchebag, who has a line of sight on the doorway, notices the newcomer and straightens up, plastering his best shit-eating grin on his face. “Hello, Jim!” he says with exaggerated self-importance.

          John turns around to see Dr. Moriarty in the doorway. “ I've told you before, Anderson, you don’t get to use my first name,” the professor scolds, closing the door behind him. John turns around, relieved that he’s no longer alone with these students. “How are you doing, John?” Dr. Moriarty says with a broad grin, moving alongside the younger boy and putting a paternal arm about his shoulders. “Now I’m sure you’re all going to become fast friends,” he says smoothly to the other students, all trace of irritation gone.

          Anderson scowls. “We’re well on our way already,” he mutters under his breath.

          “Good,” the professor says. “Because after John is brought up to date I want the rest of you to take your cues from him.” He pats John on the shoulder and walks around the table. “His ideas on efficient fluorescent compounds are the most original I've seen. So from now on, John is going to be in charge of the group.”

          “Oh really, Jim,” Anderson says skeptically.

          “Anderson, you’re doing it again.”

          Anderson feigns a look of surprise. “Oh, am I?”

          Dr. Moriarty pays no attention, continues to walk around the table. “Where’s Holmes?” he asks.

          “Oh, he didn't bother to come in today,” Anderson replies, very much like a child tattling to their parent. The boy with the buzzcut raises his hand.

          “Yes, Dimmock?” Dr. Moriarty says with exaggerated patience.

          “He said it was ‘boring’. And I said ‘you better’. And he said ‘or what?’ And I said ‘or else you’re going to be in trouble’. And he said ‘Tedious’,” Dimmock said in a rush, as if he couldn't get the words out fast enough.

          “That’s a remarkable story, Dimmock. I noticed you've stopped stuttering,” Dr. Moriarty drawls.

          “I’ve been giving myself shock treatments,” Dimmock says proudly.

          “Up the voltage,” Dr. Moriarty replies. John isn't entirely sure that the professor is joking.

          “That freak!” the girl says exasperatedly. “We heard he wasn't coming. Anderson decided to start without him. We find the fluorescent yield insignificant and we think the sample’s been damaged.”

          Dr. Moriarty’s expression darkens. “What?”

          John moves closer to the table and begins inspecting the setup. Anderson pipes up. “Well it’s obviously the result of negligence. It’ll take us at least another week to prepare another sample and I was afraid something like this might happen.”

          “Are you sure about this?” Dr. Moriarty says coldly. John had not seen this side of the professor in previous meetings, and is firmly convinced that if the students are wrong about this, someone’s going to be made into shoes.

          “Oh we’re sure about it,” Anderson says smugly.

          “Positive,” the girl chimes in.

          “I mean, there’s simply no excuse for it,” Anderson adds.

          That’s when John sees it – there’s something wrong with the pump laser. “Excuse me, sir,” he says to Dr. Moriarty.

          “Yes John, what is it?” the professor says distractedly.

          “I think the pump laser is down. This doesn't look right. Look here.” He taps the laser, and it brightens. “See?”

          Dr. Moriarty smiles fractionally. “Well, it seems to be all better now,” he says calmly. Then he whirls around to the other students. “Dammit, don’t touch other people’s things!” he shouts angrily. The students have the good grace to look chastened. In a split second the anger has dissipated, and he turns his attention to Anderson. “Anderson, I need you,” he says in the manner of someone giving an order.

          “Anything, Jim.” The professor gives him a look. “What?” Anderson says innocently. “Oh, do you want me to teach your sophomore class for you?” he adds, clearly trying to impress upon John, the newcomer, that he’s the professor’s favorite student.

          “No, I need you to do some duplicating. Get copies made of all the data so far so that young John here can get started. He’s going to check everything tomorrow.”

          Anderson looks affronted. “It’d be my pleasure,” he bites out.

          “And after that, stop by my cleaners,” Dr. Moriarty adds.

          “Don’t give it a thought, I enjoy it,” Anderson replies sarcastically. Dr. Moriarty ignores him and faces John. “All right John. Shall we?” he says, walking towards the door, clearly indicating that John should follow.

          Dimmock turns to Anderson. “So I guess it goes from God, to Jim, to you, to the cleaners, right, Anderson?” he mocks.

          John grins as he follows the professor down the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was worth the wait. Thanks for the kudos and comments! This is my first multi-chapter fic, and I wasn't sure how it'd be received, but it seems like some of you out there find it amusing. The next chapter is written but needs to be proofed; hopefully I'll get it posted by the end of the week. Thanks again for reading, and comments/kudos are love!


	5. Number four is the short straw, but it's broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's settling in at Pacific Tech and learns more about his eccentric roommate Sherlock - things that are disturbing, and also quite extraordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added a tag for implied drug use in this chapter. I wasn't initially planning on including any drug use for Sherlock in this fic, but in this particular instance it explains his rather OOC behaviour. Concrit is welcome, and kudos/comments are love. Enjoy!

          It's been a few days since John met Anderson, Dimmock, and Sally Donovan in the laser lab, and he is starting to acclimate to university life. He is still curious about the impeccably-dressed guy apparently living in their closet, but is forced to shove that mystery aside in favour of his crippling load of coursework and time spent in the laser lab. Sherlock is another mystery - sometimes he goes to class, but most of the time he disappears from their room for hours at a time or he's building some strange device on his bed ("It's an  _experiment_ , John!"). Occasionally he graces the lab with his presence, but usually seems more engrossed in his own projects than in Dr. Moriarty's laser, which John doesn't understand – after all, didn't Sherlock almost single-handedly  _build_  this in the first place? Sherlock also doesn't seem to tolerate the other members of the team all that much – Anderson, in particular, clashes with Sherlock the most – but John frequently bounces ideas off of his eccentric roommate and is pleasantly surprised to get answers, at least most of the time. All in all, John feels that everything is going well, certainly better than he expected. He feels properly challenged on an intellectual level, and most of the time he's around people with whom he can hold an intelligent conversation, though he really hasn't made any friends yet outside of Sherlock, and even that's a loose definition of "friend."

          Friday evening finds John back in his and Sherlock's room, checking his schedule for the location of the study session he plans to attend later. After double-checking the location on the campus map, he gathers his books and opens the door. Stepping out into the hallway, he abruptly faceplants in… ice.

          Ice? Why the HELL was there  _ice_  in the hallway???

          John gathers his books around him, still flat on his stomach. He looks up one end of the hallway, then the other. The entire corridor, common room and kitchen are a solid sheet of ice from end to end, with a ramp of ice covering the stairs. Just then, Sherlock – adorned in a long dark coat, gloves, scarf and – laughably – earmuffs, skates – _skates!_ – over to him.

          “Welcome to Pacific Tech’s Smart People on Ice!” Sherlock crows, heaving John up by his armpits. John barely hangs onto his books, and turns to drop them in their room just in time, because Sherlock is pushing him along the ice. “Let’s go skating!” he shouts.

          “Are you high?” John asks exasperatedly. He means it as a joke, but then he takes a look at Sherlock. His pupils are dilated far too much for the amount of light in the area, and he’s nearly manic. “Christ, you _are_ high, aren’t you?” he breathes.

          “Only a little. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” Sherlock says dismissively. The taller teen turns to a stocky brown-haired boy next to him, wearing goggles. “Mike! The ice turned out so _great_!” he exclaims.

          Mike looks pleased with himself. “Yeah, it worked, didn’t it?”

          Sherlock skates around Mike and throws his arm around the shorter boy’s shoulders, practically draping himself over him. “How did you do it?” he slurs.

          “Oh sure, I tell you, you tell someone else, and the next thing you know we’re in the middle of another ice age,” Mike teases. Sherlock peels himself off and pirouettes off into the common room, shouting something about moles and trolls. Mike turns to John, who is still trying to wrap his head around a skating rink in their dorm, and his roommate who apparently indulges in recreational substances. “Yeah, he’s always like that,” Mike says.

          “What, high?” John says bitterly.

          “No, just… unpredictable. You think you have him figured out, and then…” Mike gestures toward Sherlock, who is now attempting a double toe loop in the kitchen. “He says it helps him think. To be honest, I rarely see him like _this_ , though,” Mike says, indicating Sherlock’s chemically induced mania. John nods in resigned acknowledgement.

          Mike grins at John. “I have to say, I’m surprised you lasted this long with him. He usually runs off his roommates within twenty four to forty eight hours. A whole lot of people around here lost the dorm pool when you were still here on Wednesday.”

          John shakes his head wearily. “He’s not… well, he’s not really that bad,” John confesses. “I mean, sure, his side of the room looks like a tornado hit it, and half the time he doesn’t go to class, and it’d be nice if he’d help out more in the lab, but… I don’t know. He’s the first real friend I’ve had. Ever.”

          Mike looks at John sympathetically. “You should have seen him when he first got here. You’re adjusting well compared to what _he_ went through.” John smiles weakly, and Mike claps him on the shoulder. “Say, do you want a cherry?” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a cherry the size of a cantaloupe. “I grow them myself.”

          John gapes at the overlarge fruit, and nearly gets clipped by an auburn-haired girl on a sled made out of some metal tubing and a folding lawn chair, who has just launched herself down the ramp covering the stairs. The sled topples over and the girl falls out. John rushes over to help her up. “Are you okay?” he asks.

          The girl looks flustered as she removes her helmet. Her large brown eyes flick back and forth, like she’s trying to memorize the space around her, and her hands flutter like thin white birds. “No, not emotionally, no I’m not. I’m disappointed, not terribly but still. It should have gone much further, much faster. It’s okay though, I know what the problem is. It’s obviously the drag co-efficient.” She pauses her rapid-fire explanation long enough to turn the toppled sled over. “I just have to fix the blades. I can do that, no problem. I could do that here, but for their design I have to cut them and that takes tools. Time. Do you know how much longer this stuff is supposed to last?” she asks Mike suddenly.

          “Maybe another half-hour,” he shrugs.

          “Good, that’s good,” she says, pleased. Then she turns to John. “What’s your name?” she asks.

          “John.”

          “Oh, thank you for your help. Okay, see you later, okay bye!” She waves and starts pushing the damaged sled-chair back to her room.

          “Who was that?” John asks Mike.

          “Oh, that’s—“

          The girl abandons her sled and slides back down the hall to the two of them. “I’m Molly, Molly Hooper. I heard there was a new student this term, are you him?”

          “Yeah.”

          “Do you have a bed?” she asks excitedly.

          “….Yes….” John replies, not sure where this is going.

          “I was going to make you one if you didn’t have one but you have one so okay. Okay, I’ll see you later. Okay, bye!” She takes off down the hall, retrieving her sled along the way, and John just stares after her, amused.

          “What’s all this?” an irritatingly nasal voice demands, addressing no one in particular.

          John groans inwardly as Anderson walks up to him with a load of papers and binders in his arms. He is saved from an awkward explanation, however, when Sherlock skates over to them. “This – this is ice. This is what happens to water when it gets too cold,” Sherlock says sarcastically, gesturing to the winter wonderland around them. He then points at Anderson. “This – this is Anderson. This is what happens when people get too sexually frustrated, because they’re dating one girl and trying to get into the pants of another.”

          Anderson glares at Sherlock, who meets it with a cool stare. "Now look, whatever you're implying--"

         Sherlock smirks. "I'm not implying anything," he says. "I merely observed that Sally came over to your room last night, presumably for a nice little chat, and happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, judging by the state of her knees."

          Anderson gapes like a fish for a couple of seconds before he regains his wits enough to plop the bundle of papers and notebooks he's carrying into John’s arms. If it weren’t for Sherlock standing behind him and placing a steadying hand on his shoulder (and dammit, why did that just send a shiver up his spine?), John surely would have lost his footing on the ice. “This should keep you busy for a while,” Anderson sneers. “This plus your regular class load should turn your brain to tapioca in less than a month.”

          Sherlock moves his hand, but only to wrap his arm around John’s shoulders. “Oh, that is _so_ unfair. And we were going to make you king of the winter carnival,” he says to Anderson, completely deadpan.

           “Yeah?” Anderson says, his face lighting up.

          Sherlock shares a conspiratorial look with John, who starts giggling in spite of himself. “Oh, ha ha ha,” Anderson says, his cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. He turns to Mike. “And I suppose you’re in on this too. Did you make this stuff?”

          Mike smirks. “I’m not saying.”

          “Well who’s going to clean this up?” Anderson shouts, waving his arms for emphasis.

          “You won’t have to,” Mike replies peevishly. “It’s going to go from solid directly to gas.”

          Anderson forgets that he’s supposed to be angry. “Whoa, really?” he breathes, impressed. “What is it?”

          “I’m not saying,” Mike says again, “but I can tell you that it’s fairly rare and _very_ unstable.”

          “Just like you,” Sherlock rumbles in Anderson’s direction.

          Anderson looks disgusted. “You’re all just a bunch of degenerates,” he grumbles, heading to his room.

          “ _We_ are?” Sherlock retorts. “What about that time I found you naked with that bowl of Jell-O?”

          “You did not,” Anderson stammers, clearly uncomfortable and clearly lying.

          “This is true,” Sherlock intones in John’s ear, and the timbre of that baritone voice sends John’s thoughts spinning out of control again.

          Anderson looks like he's about to spit nails. “I was hot and I was hungry, okay? Anyway, I got news for you,” he says, trying to regain lost ground. “You’re not number one around here anymore.”

          “Number one what?” Sherlock drawls, bored with this conversation.

          Anderson gestures to John. “Mighty Mouse here beat your placement scores by over twenty points,” he crows.

          Sherlock turns fractionally to face John. “Oh really? Guess you think you're pretty smart then, huh?” he says with a look that John would call  _impressed_ , except that this is Sherlock, and John can't imagine Sherlock _ever_ being impressed by him. John tries to speak but apparently has lost the capacity for verbal communication, being in such close proximity to Sherlock's strangely exotic face. Sherlock chuckles and turns away, fixing a withering stare on Anderson. "Placement scores are meaningless, and your attempts either to get a rise out of me, or to pit me against John, are laughable." He lets go of John and attempts to pirouette up the ice ramp covering the stairs, but loses his footing and falls. The ice begins to sublimate just as Mike said it would, and what was once an indoor ice rink now looks more like the morning fog rolling in over San Francisco Bay, completely obscuring Sherlock from view.

          Mike pulls on his goggles. “It worked!” he exclaims. “Now if we can just keep it from exploding!” Anderson squeaks and runs into his room, slamming the door behind him, as John and Mike collapse into laughter. Sherlock picks himself up off the floor and carefully makes his way over to them, giggling.

          John takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. “Well it looks like I have work to do,” he says regretfully. “See you around, Mike,” he adds, walking back to the room. Sherlock rushes over to open the door for him in a rather uncharacteristic show of thoughtfulness. “Uh, thanks,” he says to his lanky roommate.

          Sherlock says nothing, just waits for John to enter the room before following and shutting the door behind them. John drops the load he’s carrying on his desk while Sherlock sits down on his own bed, pulls off his gloves and earmuffs and starts unlacing his skates. John turns to face Sherlock. “So,” he ventures slowly. “What did you take?”

          Sherlock pulls the first skate off and works on the next. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says evenly.

          “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” John says tightly. “You were high – probably still _are_ high, from the look of it.” Sherlock looks up, pale eyes flickering over John's face, as if he's looking for clues. “Yeah, I know what it looks like when someone’s high, or drunk, or otherwise mentally impaired by chemicals. Got plenty of experience with my dad and my sister," John adds.

          “Your lesbian sister,” Sherlock says, pulling off the other skate and shrugging off his coat and scarf. “Came out last year and your family didn’t approve, so what had just been casual drinking for her turned into alcoholism and dabbling in harder stuff. And that’s one of the reasons why you've decided to keep your own sexuality a secret.” Sherlock sits back on his bed with a look of satisfaction as he peels off his too-tight jeans.

          “What – how did you know all that?” John says incredulously, shame and embarrassment shoved aside in favor of pure, unadulterated wonder, while at the same time pointedly _not_ looking at his roommate's half-naked body.

          “I didn’t _know_ , I _saw_.  Your sexuality was easy – picked up on that the day we met, the way you looked at me, your pulse and breathing rate increasing when I walked past you and when I pushed you to the floor – but I also realized that you hadn’t come out yet. The rest I saw tonight. Your reaction when you realized I was high told me that you’ve dealt with substance abuse before – not your own, but someone close to you. You confirmed it when you just now mentioned your dad and sister. Then your status as a closet homosexual made more sense. You haven’t come out yet because you’ve seen someone else do it – your sister – not recently, but recent enough that you don’t feel comfortable announcing your own preferences to your parents, so probably within the last twelve months. Your dad’s been a drinker for as long as you can remember; you flinch almost imperceptibly when people encroach on your personal space and you have quick reflexes as demonstrated the day we met, so the balance of probability suggests that you were most likely a frequent target of his alcohol-induced rages. Your sister’s drinking – or at least the current quantity of her drinking – is a fairly new development, likely also within the past year, as a coping mechanism for your parents’ rejection, as is the drug use, which explains the look of disgust you gave me when you noticed that I was high,” Sherlock finishes, looking very proud of himself.

          John is too impressed to be angry at having his and his family’s lives laid bare so coldly. “That – was – amazing,” he says haltingly.

         Sherlock looks at him, surprise crossing his angular features. “You think so?”

         “It was extraordinary, it was quite – extraordinary,” John replies.

         “That’s not what people normally say.”

         “What do people normally say?”

         “Piss off!”

         John laughs in spite of himself, which elicits a chuckle from Sherlock. He studies Sherlock as the older boy pulls off his t-shirt; he can see that Sherlock is coming down from whatever he took, and decides to leave that fight for another time. He realizes then that he’s missed his study session, but there was nothing he could do about it now. With a sigh he flops on his bed, throwing his arm over his eyes. Sherlock had correctly deduced everything about his home life, and every instinct told him that he should be royally pissed at the insensitive way he'd laid everything out, but he just can't bring himself to hate the older boy for observing what was right in front of him. This was also the most that Sherlock had said to him in one day since the day they met, and now John has a ton of questions he wants to ask his roommate. Bringing his arm down to his side, he turns his head toward Sherlock, and sighs at what he sees. The teen has apparently passed out, sitting on his bed with his back against the wall in only his boxers, the rest of his clothes strewn about him. John levers himself up and steps over the clutter to Sherlock’s bed. He maneuvers Sherlock into a supine position, placing his head upon the pillow, and draws the sheet over him. Sherlock rolls over on his side, pulling his knees up and hugging his pillow. John picks up the coat and scarf and hangs them on the hook on the back of the hall door. He switches off the overhead light and turns on his desk lamp instead, settling down in his chair to tackle the research materials Anderson had given him.

      “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he whispers, cracking open the first binder.

      He barely hears the faint rumble of his roommate’s baritone voice. “Goodnight, John.”


	6. Number five is a bad crime 'round the circuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a couple of interesting conversations - first with Sherlock, then with the mysterious man in the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wa-hey, it's an update, finally - and a nice long one at that! It is my sincerest hope to post another chapter before the end of the week, to make up for the long wait. Once again, this story is completely un-beta'ed, so if you see some grammar or tense issues, or something plain doesn't make sense, please let me know (nicely of course!). As always, dialogue from Sherlock is courtesy of the transcripts done by the wonderful Ariane Devere (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com).

          John wakes up early the next morning when Impeccably-Dressed Closet Guy (as he’s started referring to the mysterious stranger in his head) enters their room. John pretends to be asleep, but he knows the man saw him looking; he gives up the ruse and openly watches the man enter the closet and shut the door behind him. He waits a beat, then leaps out of bed and opens the closet door. He pushes the clothes aside and searches every inch of the closet for a switch, a hidden door, _something_ – but once again, his search turns up nothing. Giving it up as a bad job, he steps out of the closet and closes the door. John spares a glance at his roommate, who appears to be twisted up like a pretzel under his bedsheet, with only his unruly mop of dark curls visible. Sighing, John collects his clothes and wash bag and heads off to the bathroom.

          As he steps under the warm spray of the shower, John replays last night’s conversation with Sherlock in his head. It occurs to him that Sherlock had not only correctly deduced his sexual orientation, but also didn't seem to _care_ that John is gay, which is something the younger boy had not expected. Granted, the state of California had repealed most of their anti-gay legislation ten years ago, but that didn't mean that homosexuality was condoned by everyone, and it was generally a good idea to keep such things to oneself. You never knew when you were going to run into that one homophobic bastard who was quite content to beat you into a pulpy mass simply because you preferred same-sex partners.

          Thinking of Sherlock’s non-reaction to his sexuality leads John’s thoughts down another path. What if Sherlock is gay too? He hasn't seen Sherlock with any girls, though they've only been rooming together for a week, so that doesn't mean much. The older boy isn't stereotypically handsome; his features all seem too exaggerated when considered individually, but somehow they combine to form a strangely beautiful and untouchable creature, who could probably get anyone he wants – girl _or_ boy. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock is far less forthcoming about his own life than he has been about dissecting John’s, and all attempts to discover more about his roommate have, up to this point, been deftly – but politely – rebuffed. Sherlock may be nicer to John than to anyone else at this university, but clearly he keeps himself to himself.

          John sighs and looks down as he rinses off the soap. Just thinking about Sherlock in any capacity seems to send his typical teenage hormones into overdrive, but he knows he can’t take care of this in a communal bathroom, not when Anderson, or God forbid Sherlock himself, could wander in at any moment. John faces the spray of the shower and turns the water as cold as he can stand it, until his body calms down enough that he won’t embarrass himself if someone walks in while he’s getting dressed.

          John returns to the room and drops his pajamas and wash bag on his bed as Sherlock, now somewhat conscious, passes him wrapped in his bedsheet. John follows his roommate as he walks into the kitchen, peering surreptitiously at the taller boy’s bum.

          “Sherlock?”

          “Hmm?” Sherlock responds absently, opening the freezer and pulling out a metal tube about the size and length of a human forearm.

          “Are you wearing any pants?”

          Sherlock walks over to the table and sets the tube down. “…No…” he says, donning thick, insulated work gloves and opening the metal tube. He uses a pair of tongs to extract a long, icy cylinder that begins to sublimate as it makes contact with the air.

          John clears his throat, once again forcing his less-than-pure thoughts about his lanky (and, alright, _gorgeous_ ) roommate way, way down. “Okay…” he says. _Time to change the subject_ , he thinks. “Is that liquid nitrogen?” he asks, as Sherlock lays the smoking substance down on a cutting board.

          “Yep,” Sherlock replied, putting emphasis on the plosive consonant. He uses an electronic device to slice two dime-thin slivers off of the tube. “Coffee?”

          “Uh, sure,” John says. Sherlock slips the nitrogen disks into the vending machine and a cup drops down, rapidly filling with coffee. When it is full he hands it to John, then slices off a few more disks and purchases a cup for himself, replacing the liquid nitrogen in its storage container and putting it back in the freezer. John sips his coffee, wondering absently how Sherlock is able to keep the sheet wrapped around his thin body and still use both hands.

          “So, uh, did you know there’s a man living in our closet?” John asks uncertainly, as Sherlock retrieves his coffee.

          “You've seen him too?” Sherlock buys a chocolate bar from the other vending machine with the last of his nitrogen coins.

          “Who is he?”

          “The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now,” Sherlock replies cryptically.

          “Yeah, but why does he keep going into our closet?” John presses.

          “Why do _you_ keep going into our closet?” Sherlock challenges.

          “To get my clothes, but that’s not why he goes in there,” John replies, wondering how he lost control of this simple conversation so quickly.

          “Of course not. He’s twice your size, your clothes would never fit him,” Sherlock says, taking his questionable breakfast back to their room.

          “Yeah…” John says, confused.

          “Think before you ask these questions, John. Twenty points higher than me, and you think a big guy like that can wear your clothes?” Sherlock mutters to himself as he enters their room and shuts the door in John’s face.

* * *

 

          Over the next few weeks, John finally settles in to university life. He’s keeping up with the rest of the students in all of his classes, even if he does feel like he’s spending every free moment studying or working in the laser lab. Anderson, Donovan and Dimmock grudgingly accept John’s leadership in the lab, and the team is making progress on the laser, if a bit slowly. The biggest issue is the power problem – the laser simply isn't as powerful as Professor Moriarty wants it to be, and John is racking his brains trying to find a way to coax more out of the current configuration. Sherlock still isn't coming to the lab as often as John wishes he would, but when he does deign to show up, they tend to make much more progress working together, and have developed a solid working relationship. The biggest issue on John’s plate now is making sure that the other three students don’t make any changes when John and Sherlock aren't there, and John makes a mental note to talk to Sherlock about the best way to handle that. He really doesn't want to bring it up to Professor Moriarty if he can help it.

          John is studying at his desk one evening, Sherlock having gone off in search of mold samples from the dorm’s bathrooms for his latest experiment (he asked John to accompany him, but the younger boy politely declined, having observed the mold firsthand in the shower every morning). He lifts his arms above his head and stretches, knocking the kinks out of his shoulders and cracking his spine against the back of the wooden chair. He’s been staring at the same set of equations for the past fifteen minutes, and they still aren't making any sense to his tired mind. Shifting in his seat, he notices that the closet door is ajar. John hasn't given much more thought to Impeccably-Dressed Closet Guy lately, but he needs a break from calculus and this is as good a diversion as any. He stands up and opens the closet door further, stepping inside and examining every inch of the walls within for some sort of secret door. Then a sudden inspiration strikes him. He reaches behind him and pulls the closet door closed. The closet is pitch black for a second, and then John hears a mechanical sound coming from the wall right in front of him. The panels on the back wall of the closet open up, revealing a dim light and three words written on the wall opposite him, with an arrow pointing to the right: _This is it._

          John’s heart starts pounding in his chest as he steps forward into the secret passageway, feeling a bit like Lucy Pevensie entering Narnia. He follows the arrow and finds a small metal one-seat car, almost like a bumper car without the bumpers. Emboldened by his discovery, he climbs in, and the car descends to what must be the basement of the dorm, judging by the cinder block walls and the pipes overhead. He’s about to get out but the car moves forward. It comes to a turn and John sees a skull and crossbones flag hanging over what looks for all the world to be a steep drop-off. He scrambles for a moment, thinking he’s going to have to jump out, but the car simply descends again, to yet another level under the dorm, and finally stops. John climbs out and walks down a hallway for a short distance, until he sees something that makes him stop and gape in shock.

        Impeccably-Dressed Closet Guy, still done up in his bespoke three-piece suit, is sitting at what appears to be a mahogany desk, typing on a keyboard attached to a computer terminal, and drinking tea from a bone china tea service. The sight is so incongruous with the nearly dungeon-like surroundings that John has to suppress a laugh. The man looks up, and John freezes in shock.

          “Have a seat, John,” the man says, gesturing to the elegant wooden chair in front of his desk. John walks forward and sits, feeling rather like he’s been called to the principal’s office.

          “Would you like some tea?” the man offers.

          “No thank you,” John replies, now feeling less like he’s in Narnia, and more like he’s fallen down a rabbit hole.

          The man leans back in his chair a bit, gazing at John in a way that feels oddly familiar – _like Sherlock_ , he thinks. “You don’t seem very afraid,” the man says.

          “You don’t seem very frightening,” John counters. “Do you live down here, in the basement of our dorm?”

          “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” the man asks, ignoring John’s question.

          “He’s my roommate. You ought to know that, seeing as you live in our closet,” John replies icily, feeling oddly defensive of Sherlock.

          “Of course. I also know that Sherlock has never kept a roommate for more than 48 hours, and you’re about three and a half weeks past that point, which is, in and of itself, a minor miracle. And I know that you've been put in charge of Professor Moriarty’s laser project, ahead of not only Sherlock but also three other students who are much older than you. Furthermore, you've managed to get Sherlock to visit the lab more often in the month that you've been here than he did all last semester. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” the man says with a slight sneer.

          “Who _are_ you?” John asks, irritation creeping into his voice.

          “An interested party,” the man replies smoothly, with a smile that reminds John of a dog baring its teeth.

          “Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

          “You've met him. How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has?” The man’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, and John feels offended on Sherlock’s behalf. It was no secret that the young genius didn't get along with that many people, but this man almost sounds as if Sherlock doesn't _deserve_ to have any friends, and John couldn't disagree more. “I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having,” the man adds.

          “And what’s that?”

          “An enemy.”

          “An enemy?” _Who the hell does this guy think he is?_

          “In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his _arch_ -enemy. He does love to be dramatic,” the man replies condescendingly.

          John takes a long look at his surroundings – the dank walls, the concrete floor, the sparse fluorescent lighting, and the mahogany desk. “Well thank god _you’re_ above all that,” he says sarcastically.

          The man frowns. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

          John lifts his chin fractionally, in an unconscious show of defiance. “I could be wrong, but I _think_ that’s none of your business.”

          “It _could_ be,” the man says ominously.

          “It _really_ couldn't,” John counters, holding the other man’s glare.

          The man turns his attention to his computer terminal, typing something in and pressing Enter. “If you intend to continue _‘rooming’_ with Sherlock, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis.”

          “Why?” John asks, wondering when this bizarre meeting went all cloak-and-dagger.

          “Because you’re a young college student with no income.”

          “In exchange for what?”

          “Information,” the man says, and the bared-teeth smile returns. “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

          “Why?” John asks warily.

          “I worry about him. _Constantly,_ ” the man says, as if Sherlock is some wayward child that needs looking after. If John’s honest, that assessment isn't far off the mark, but he still doesn't see why that’s any of this man’s business.

          “That’s nice of you,” John says without a trace of sincerity.

          “But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship,” the man adds, consulting his computer terminal once again.

          “No,” John says with finality.

          The man looks up from his terminal and fixes John with a calculating stare. “But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

          “Don’t bother.”

          The man laughs. “You’re very loyal, _very_ quickly.”

          John sets his jaw. This conversation veered off the path of normal a long time ago, and all John wants to do is leave this strange man’s bunker and find his roommate, so they can discuss the little matter of the arch-enemy in the basement. “No I’m not, I’m just not interested.”

          The man glances at his computer terminal again. “Trust issues, it says in your student file,” he murmurs.

          John shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “What’s that?” he asks apprehensively.

          The man taps away at his keyboard. “Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?”

          “Who says I trust him?” John says defensively.

          “You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily,” the man continues, as if John had not spoken.

          John has officially had enough. “Are we done here?” he says, his tone clearly indicating that he’s not asking, but rather stating a fact.

          The man smirks. “You tell me.”

          John fixes a cold stare on the man, then rises from the chair and walks back to the little car.

          “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see that’s not going to happen,” the man calls after him.

          John whirls around, clenching his fists at his sides. “He’s my roommate, and contrary to what you think of him, he’s also my friend. So no, I’m not going to stay away from him.”

          “Sherlock Holmes is dangerous, Mr. Watson. Don’t say I didn't warn you,” the man says, and to John it sounds like a threat.

          “I’ll take my chances,” John says tightly, turning back toward the car.

          “Time to choose a side, Mr. Watson,” the man says to John’s retreating back. John doesn't bother to reply. He gets back into the car, and as it rises, he holds the stare of the man behind the desk. He doesn't blink until he’s out of the man’s sight. Once the car returns him to the hallway behind the closet, John disembarks and nearly falls on his knees, letting out the breath he didn't know he was holding. _What the screaming blue fuck was that all about?_ he wonders, steadying himself against the wall before making his way back to the closet. Fortunately the secret panel in the closet is still open, and John walks through it. Taking a deep breath, he opens the closet door.


	7. Number six is a sad dream when you're working

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit rolls downhill. In this case, it rolls from Moriarty, to Sherlock, to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished writing this Saturday night and I want to get it posted before we go out to dinner for Father's Day, so please let m know if you see any glaring mistakes or WTF moments. I promise I will log in later and clean up the formatting, but for now, enjoy!

          Sherlock is loitering on Professor Moriarty’s front porch, waiting for the man himself to arrive. The teen knows why the professor has called him here, but he’s got nothing better to do – John having disappeared from their room by the time he returned from collecting his mold samples, which are at present incubating under his bed – and needling the older man is an endless source of entertainment for the irreverent young genius. He munches on some popcorn while he waits, and soon sees his applied physics professor jogging toward the house, decked out in a track suit in defiance of the southern California heat, which has yet to dissipate in the hour since sunset.

          “You wanted to see me?” Sherlock drawls as Moriarty jogs up onto the front porch.

         “Mr. Holmes, you’re right on time. That’s unusual for you these days. Do you still run?” Moriarty asks, jogging in place.

         Sherlock smirks. “Only when chased.”

         Moriarty turns toward the front door, but stops as he wrinkles his nose with distaste. “What’s that smell?” He looks back at Sherlock, and the bag of popcorn the teen is holding. “That’s popcorn.”

         Sherlock pops another handful in his mouth. “Yes, I know,” he says, the words nearly unintelligible.

         Moriarty recoils. “Get it away from me. I can’t stand popcorn. I hate popcorn.” He opens the door and steps inside.

         Sherlock unceremoniously drops the bag on the porch. “Good, now I know what to get you for your birthday,” he mutters under his breath as he follows the professor inside.

         Moriarty walks toward his office as Sherlock turns in a slow circle in the main hallway, taking in the renovations. “Quite a change from the old place,” he remarks drily as Moriarty removes his shoes.

         “Shoes,” the professor snaps irritably, flicking his eyes down to Sherlock’s Chucks. Sherlock rolls his eyes and toes them off, following Moriarty into his office and plopping down gracelessly in the chair in front of the professor’s desk.

         Moriarty sits in the large chair behind the desk and leans back. His body language is relaxed, but his expression is taut. “I want to start seeing more of you in the lab,” he begins without preamble.

         “Fine. I’ll gain weight,” Sherlock deadpans.

         “You’re very funny.”

         “Thanks, Jim. I try.”

         Moriarty sits up, folding his hands on his desk. “You know, when I first brought you into this school I thought you were going to be another Einstein, and you were well on your way. And then…”

         “I got a haircut.”

         Moriarty is not amused. “You’re disappointing me, Sherlock.”

         “And you me, Jim.”

         “We had a deal.”

         Sherlock lets out a bored sigh. “I know, Jim, and I have advanced your project more than any _three students_ on campus.”

         “That was yesterday. What have you done for me today?” Moriarty counters. Sherlock is silent, holding the professor’s stern gaze. “I want 5 megawatts by mid-May.”

         Sherlock chuckles humorlessly. “I think you may be getting a little obsessive about this. I took in John. He’s coming along fine. He’s working his guts out for you. So…what _exactly_ do you want?”

         Moriarty’s expression remains unchanged. “I want 5 megawatts by mid-May.” He pauses and sits back, considering the young man in front of him. “Look, I don’t care if you’re arrogant. I don’t care if you’re disrespectful. But your attitude’s distracting John and that I won’t have. The rules have changed. I want it by mid-May.”

         Sherlock’s expression hardens. He sits up in the chair, all affectations of laziness melting away. “You’re forgetting one small detail, Jim. I’m graduating. Gone. Casper. Out of here.”

         Moriarty leans forward again, fixing cold dark eyes on his student. “To graduate you need my course, dear boy. So it seems I have something to say about what you do and where you go. So from now on you and John are going to spend every waking moment in the lab. You will solve my power problem and you will solve it by my deadline.”

         Sherlock stands. “Oh, will I?” he challenges.

         Moriarty stands as well. He’s shorter than Sherlock by a couple of inches, but no less intimidating. “Yes, Sherlock, you will.” The professor and student lock eyes in a silent battle of wills for several interminably long seconds, before Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns to leave. At the door to the office, he turns around. “Jim, if you think that by threatening me you can get me to be your slave, well…that’s where you’re right. But – and I’m only saying this because I care – there are a lot of decaffeinated brands on the market that are just as tasty as the real thing.

         Moriarty folds his arms across his chest. “I’m not kidding, Sherlock.”

         Sherlock smirks and walks out, bending over to pick up his shoes. “Neither am I, Jim,” he says over his shoulder.

* * *

 

         John’s working in the lab when Sherlock saunters in, wearing a tight black Harley Davidson t-shirt, board shorts, and Chucks with no socks. John glances up, taking in Sherlock’s appearance with a rueful sigh ( _that t-shirt outlines his torso perfectly, and is he wearing any pants under those board shorts – stop it, John!_ ), then turns his attention back to his work, his mouth set in a firm line.

         “Hard at work, I see,” Sherlock remarks, trying to break the ice.

         “Well spotted,” John retorts, not in the mood for idle chit-chat.

         “Ah,” Sherlock says, trying a different tack. “Everything alright?”

         “No, everything is _not_ alright,” John spits, whirling around to face his roommate. “This combination of electrical plus chemical cyanide is dumb. We’re going in the wrong direction. You’re the only one who knows how to use this garbage and of course you’re never here. Oh, and I ran into a _friend_ of yours earlier, who took it upon himself to interrogate me about my association with you. So forgive me if I’m not in the best of moods.”

         “A friend?” Sherlock asks, intrigued.

         “An enemy.”

         “Oh. Which one?”

         John takes a moment to process that question. “Well, your _arch_ enemy, according to him. Do people _have_ archenemies?”

         Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

         “Yes…”

         “Did you take it?”

         “No…”

         “Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time,” Sherlock says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for strange men to be offering bribes to his acquaintances.

         “People don’t have archenemies, in real life. Doesn’t happen,” John says, dark blue eyes scanning the older teen inquisitively, his frustration over the laser momentarily forgotten in light of the opportunity to learn more about the enigma who shares his dorm room.

         Sherlock turns away from John and starts examining the laser assembly as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Sounds a bit dull,” he says, deflecting.

         “So who did I meet?” John presses.

         “What do real people have, then, in their _real_ lives?” Sherlock counters, moving around the table.

         “Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don’t like... Girlfriends, boyfriends...” John trails off.

         Sherlock is still moving around the table as if he’s looking for something. He spots a small mirror on a stand and picks it up. “Yes, well as I was saying – dull.”

         John seizes upon the opening. “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

         Sherlock sets the mirror down on a couple of small blocks, positioning it. “Girlfriend, no, not really my area.”

         John’s heart quickens. “Oh. Right. Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks, turning away from Sherlock and examining the power configuration in the cage.

         “No,” Sherlock replies, picking up another mirror and positioning it in a different spot.

         John muses on Sherlock’s response. _Girlfriends aren’t his area, but when I asked if he has a boyfriend, his answer was simply ‘no’. Does that mean he’s not interested in relationships at all, or just not interested in girls?_ The younger teen is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Sherlock sidling up behind him. “Let’s charge this baby up. Give me everything you got,” he rumbles, and John is unsuccessful at repressing the shiver that cascades down his spine.

         “O-Okay, but I have to fix the capacitors first,” John stutters nervously, focusing on the panel in front of him and decidedly _not_ the proximity of his roommate’s body in relation to his own. Sherlock steps over to a different cage and flips a couple switches. John flips a switch on his own panel and steps away from the cage, accepting the protective eyewear that Sherlock hands him. Sherlock pulls his Wayfarers out of his perpetually mussed curls and puts them on, then walks over to the lab door and opens it.

         “What are you doing?” John asks.

         “Waiting,” Sherlock replies. Just then the lights go out.

         “Oh no!” John groans.

         Sherlock grins. “Relax, it’s just the fuses at the substation. They’ll have it back on in a minute. Perhaps I shouldn’t have shorted across the building transformer…” he muses, walking over to the main switch. “But, more importantly…did we get a charge?” He flips the switch and the laser turns on, bouncing off of the mirrors that Sherlock set up, and out the door of the lab.

         John is equal parts confused and irritated. “What did you do?” he demands as Sherlock herds him towards the door. “Wait a minute…what…?”

         Sherlock keeps pushing him out the door and down the hall, following the beam. “You wanted help, so I’m helping. Come along.”

         John looks around as they walk down the hall and out of the building. “This must have taken you hours,” he observes, looking at his roommate. Sherlock says nothing, but a small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

         They follow the laser beam across campus, and Sherlock is practically preening at the attention it’s attracting from the other students.

         “What’s this?” a random student asks, to no one in particular.

         Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s a laser beam, you idiot,” he replies, and John elbows him in the side for his rudeness.

         The student seems not to notice Sherlock’s insult. “What’s it for?” he asks.

         “Not _what,_ _where,_ ” Sherlock says. “Follow it – it’s a surprise!” he calls over his shoulder to the confused student, as he continues to push John along the sidewalk.

         They come to a stop outside the lecture hall, where the beam makes contact with a splitter above the entrance. By now a sizable crowd has amassed behind them, and John notices Mike Stamford among them. Sherlock looks down at John, with the grin of a small child on Christmas morning. “Like it?” he asks.

         “What’s the beam splitter for?” the idiot student, who has just caught up with the group, asks before John can answer Sherlock’s question.

          "Come on, do you people need everything spelled out for you?" Sherlock says with a wicked grin. John looks up. The beams from the splitter finally coalesce into the words "Tanning Invitational." Then he feels Sherlock grasp his elbow. "Come along, John."

         "What? Why? How is this in any way helping me?" he asks indignantly

         "You're too wound up, you need to relax. This is me helping you relax. Now _come along_."

         John sighs. Sherlock's grip on his elbow, while not painful, is unrelenting, and he gives up trying to resist. When he gets inside, his mouth gapes open. The entire lecture hall has been transformed into a pool party, complete with loud music, a wave pool, and inflatable slide. And there are girls - pretty, bikini-clad girls - everywhere. Sherlock lets go of John's arm and turns to face John and the crowd behind him.

         "Mula Falla, boys! The South Pacific calls YOU!" Sherlock booms.

         "Who are the girls?" John asks.

         "They're not from around here, I'd know," Mike replies next to John.

         Sherlock's grin grows wider, and - if it is possible - even more wicked. "No, but they're from a nearby college," he says.

         "Where?" asks John.

         "The Wanda Trossler School of Beauty!" Sherlock crows, clearly proud of his own ingenuity.

         "They're _beauticians??_ "

         Sherlock's eyes flash. "Not yet."

         Mike looks skeptical. "I dunno..." he says. John looks around at the other male students, who apparently share Mike's skepticism.

         “These girls aren’t used to people of above-average intelligence. You might impress them,” Sherlock cajoles.

         “I don’t see how,” Mike retorts.

         Sherlock huffs out a sigh. "Okay, okay. Given the type of people you are, and the environment you’re in, you have to admit the strong probability that this may be the only chance you will ever have in your _entire lives_ to have sex! Think about it. John, with me please," he says, walking away from the dumbfounded group.

         "What about you? Aren't you going to go find a girl to make out with? You invited them," John says, bitterness lacing his words. The thought of Sherlock making out with _anyone_ \- male or female - prickles something in his reptile brain. _Jealousy._

         "I already told you, not really my area. Do keep up," Sherlock says dismissively.

         "Then why'd you do all this?"

         "Because I _can_ ," Sherlock growls impatiently, as they walk behind the inflatable slide, "and because it gives me an opportunity to test my latest creation." He bends over to pick up what looks like a scuba tank and mask, and John has to avert his eyes from the shape of Sherlock's pert bum in the blue board shorts that he now notices has flying red birds on them. Sherlock straightens and whirls around, stalking back to the pool.

         "What is that?" John asks, falling in step beside his roommate.

         "It's a rebreather. It’s actually a simple principle. It’s basically a filter that lets the CO2 out and the O2 back in, like a plat, but with no bubbles. "

         "Of course, why didn't I think of that," John mutters sarcastically.

         "Because you're an idiot," Sherlock says. John scowls. "No, I don't mean it like that, practically everyone is," Sherlock adds, as if that’s supposed to take the sting off the insult. They stop in front of the pool. "Here," Sherlock said, thrusting the gear into John's hands. Unfortunately, John is only five foot seven at best, and still hasn't filled out that much. The added and unexpected weight of the rebreather and tank shifts his center of gravity, and he falls backwards into the pool, still fully clothed.

         "It's lighter in the water," Sherlock says, a small smile playing at his lips.

         John splutters as he sits up, wiping the water off his face with his right hand, and looks at Sherlock. Those pellucid blue eyes, usually surgically sharp in their gaze, seem softer now, and the smile is one that John has only seen in the privacy of their dorm room. He wants to think it’s a smile meant only for him, but he doesn’t dare hope for that level of sentiment from his mad roommate. Seized by impulse, John's hand shoots out and snags Sherlock by his bare calf. "Oh yeah, how about you?"  he grins, tugging the lanky genius into the pool on top of him. They wrestle around for a few moments, gasping and laughing as they try to dunk each other. Then Sherlock pulls back just a fraction and gazes at John. John doesn't know what to do. He feels his pulse and his breath quicken, and he is warm in spite of the cool water of the pool and his soaked clothes. He pushes himself up on his elbows as Sherlock's face seems to move closer and closer, and then--

         The music in the lecture hall cuts off. Everybody falls silent, and Sherlock's head whips around at the interruption. _Damn,_ John thinks with a frustrated sigh. _So close..._ Sherlock levers himself off of John and stands up, finally revealing the source of the interruption.

         It is none other than Dr. Moriarty, with a leering Anderson at his side.

         "WATSON!" Moriarty shouts.

         John scrambles to his feet and out of the pool, dripping on the linoleum. Moriarty fixes him with a menacing glare.

         "You were supposed to be in the lab tonight, working," he says, disappointment dripping from every word.

         John is immediately chastened, all thoughts of making out with his roommate forgotten. "I was, I was just--"

         "You're at Pacific Tech to learn, not goof off at illicit pool parties in lecture halls."

         "Yes sir, I'm--"

         Moriarty dismisses John's feeble attempt at an excuse with a wave of his hand. "And you, Holmes. You're supposed to be _working_ with John, not getting him to participate in your _distractions_. I don't know what the hell is going on here, but it better end _now_ , or you're both out."

         Anderson sneers over Moriarty's shoulder. "You both make me _sick_ ," he says with contempt.

         "Anderson!" Moriarty barks, and Anderson immediately assumes a more submissive posture. "That's enough. All of you, get this mess cleared up." He walks over to John, looking down his nose at the wet blond. "I took a big chance recommending a 15 year old. I can see now that I made a mistake. I hope you’re proud of yourself." Turning on his heel, he walks out of the lecture hall, Anderson close behind.

         John feels the fury and shame building within himself. His hands ball into fists as he squares his shoulders and stalks away.

         "John!"

         John keeps walking. Sherlock is the last person he wants to talk to right now, and to think, he'd almost _kissed_ him...

         "John! Wait up, please!" he calls, running to catch up.

         "Leave me alone, Sherlock! If this is your idea of help, I don't want it!" John yells, not even turning around to look at his roommate behind him. He quickens his pace toward the dorm, and tries not to feel disappointed when the footsteps behind him stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm late posting the next chapter, but if you go to this post (http://jaradel.tumblr.com/post/53768333678/fanfic-update-and-mlmgmv-chapter-7-teaser) on my Tumblr, you'll see a teaser for it! Stay with me, my lovelies, hopefully I'll have it finished and posted in a few days!


	8. I'd give my all just to be number one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John experiences the worst day of his life at Pacific Tech. It also ends up being the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I'm going to try to get one more chapter posted by the end of this coming week, and then I'll be on vacation after that. Thank you to all who are reading this silly little fic - I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!

          After a hot shower, John puts on his most comfortable sweater and jeans and heads back to the lab. Sherlock hasn't been back to their room - or, if he has, he was in and out before John returned from the communal bathroom. He stamps down the feeling of regret he has for yelling at Sherlock earlier; clearly Sherlock had no idea that Anderson found out about the pool party and informed Dr. Moriarty (though it wasn't as if it were hidden), but the fact remains that Sherlock has put John in a difficult position. He is at Pacific Tech by special invitation; numerous exceptions have been made for him due to his age, and he knows that one wrong move could get him kicked out, no matter how smart he is. He resolves then and there to put his coursework and the laser project first. No matter how much he desires Sherlock, he can’t forfeit his future for the beautiful genius.

         Unfortunately,, that plan pretty much goes to hell once he gets back to the lab. The laser is still underpowered, nothing he tries is boosting the power to the required levels, and Sherlock still hasn't turned up to help. _Well, you did tell him to leave you alone,_ John thinks bitterly. He pulls two of the components out of the rack to compare them, but everything looks to be in order. Frustrated, he goes to the whiteboard to make some calculations, but the swirling emotions in his head make it impossible for him to concentrate. He throws the dry erase marker across the room, and when that doesn't satisfy his temper, he pushes a large pile of documents off a nearby table and onto the floor. He stands there for a moment in a sea of paper, his hands balled into fists at his sides and his chest heaving, biting back tears. He’s fifteen years old, for God’s sake; too old to have a temper tantrum, much less cry about it.

 _Yeah, you’re fifteen years old,_ he tells himself, _too old to be crying, but too young to be in college, no matter how smart you are._ The pressure is just too much – no teenager could be expected to shoulder the burden of leading a graduate-level applied physics project like this. _Fuck it,_ John thinks as he storms out of the lab, barely noticing as he brushes past Anderson, Donovan and Dimmock on their way in. He finds a vacant office just down the hall, picks up the receiver of the telephone and dials.

         “Hello?” the operator answers.

         “Yes, I’d like to make a collect call to Miss Harriet Watson,” John says, fighting to keep his voice steady.

         “Number please?”

         “Oh – yes, it’s 714-555-7437,” John says. He waits several tense seconds while the operator connects the call, then he hears Harry’s voice.

         “Hello?”

         “Harry, it’s John. I didn't know who else to call,” John says, the tears he’d been holding back now slipping down his cheeks.

         “Johnny, what’s wrong, you sound like you’re crying.”

         John crumbles. “I want to come home!” he sobs. “I don’t like it here anymore!”

         “Shh, Johnny, it’s okay, just tell me what happened.”

         John sags against the desk. “It’s just – everything. I’m not ready for this yet, I’m not ready for all this pressure, not just college, but all of it. I haven’t really made any friends, the older students resent me, and my roommate – well, I thought we were friends but I just don’t know anything about him, really. And then there’s this project I’m working on, and I can’t meet my professor’s expectations, and --” John growls in frustration, pulling his hair with his free hand. “I’m done, I’m just done,” he says, defeated.

         “Well you can’t go home, you know that. Not with Dad the way he is.”

         “I know, just – could I come stay with you?”

         “You’d have to bunk on the sofa, you know Clara’s living here now, and all… but Johnny – is that _really_ what you want? Crashing with your sister and her girlfriend? Then what? You already graduated high school, would you go to community college? Get a job, even though you’re not old enough to work full time?”

         John lets his sister’s words sink in for a moment. Ultimately, he knows she’s right, but he still needs to get away from all of this, for a little while at least, because it really isn’t just about school; it’s about his confusing feelings for Sherlock, too, and he simply doesn’t have enough experience in the realm of relationships to even begin to know how to handle that.

         “Look, I just need to get away from here. Please?”

         Harry sighs. “Just give it another week, okay? If it’s still too much, call me back and we’ll work something out. This is a once in a lifetime chance you’ve got, little brother. I’d hate to see you throw it away.”

         John closes his eyes and hangs his head. “Alright, one more week. Thanks for letting me vent, sis.”

         “Anytime.”

         “Talk to you soon.”

         “Alright. Bye, Johnny.”

         “Bye.” John hangs up the phone. He takes a few deep breaths and scrubs his hands over his face, hopefully wiping away the most obvious evidence of his crying. When his nerves feel more settled, he stands up and walks out of the office, too lost in his own head to hear the snickering in the office next door.

 

* * *

 

         John doesn't see Sherlock until lunchtime the next day, when the lanky teen saunters up to his table in the dining hall and plops down in the chair next to him. Part of him wants to forgive his roommate for the pool party incident; he knew Sherlock wasn't deliberately trying to get him into trouble, after all, but he’s still feeling resentment toward the older boy for his complete disregard of the project and the tremendous amount of work that still needs to be done. John glances once at his roommate and resumes eating.

         “Didn’t see you come in last night,” Sherlock says.

         “I was in the lab, where _you_ were supposed to be,” John says bitingly.

         “Look, I’m sorry about what happened with Moriarty. I really didn't know—“

         “It’s fine, just leave it. You want to make it up to me? Show up to the fucking lab to _work_ , for once.” John glares at Sherlock and sees the older boy visibly quail, then focuses his attention on his plate.

         Sherlock clears his throat nervously. “Right – well, uh, I guess I’ll leave you to it, then—“

         They both hear it at the same time, the crackle of the speakers overhead indicating a message over the PA system. _“Harry, it’s John. I didn't know who else to call.”_

         John freezes. That’s _his_ voice. He looks at Sherlock, whose face wears an expression of shock that probably mirrors John’s.

_“Johnny, what’s wrong, you sound like you’re crying.”_

_“I want to come home! I don’t like it here anymore!”_

         John looks around the dining hall. Everyone had stopped when the “announcement” had begun, and now they were laughing and sniggering. Some were pointing at him. And then he found them – Anderson, Donovan, and Dimmock – falling over each other, laughing, in the corner. _Goddammit,_ he thinks. He remembers seeing them last night when he left the lab, and now he knows what they were really doing there.

_“Shh, Johnny, it’s okay, just tell me what happened.”_

         John looks back at Sherlock, the one person in the whole of the dining hall who is not laughing at him. If John had to give a name to the expression on his roommate’s face, he’d say it was _pity_. That’s the last thing he wants, pity from Sherlock Holmes. Clenching his fists on the table top, he stares down at his plate, wishing for all the world that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

_“It’s just – everything. I’m not ready for this yet, I’m not ready for all this pressure, not just college, but all of it. I haven’t really made any friends, the older students resent me, and my roommate – well, I thought we were friends but I just don’t know anything about him, really. And then there’s this project I’m working on, and I can’t meet my professor’s expectations, and -- I’m done, I’m just done.”_

         John feels a hand on his arm. He looks up, into Sherlock’s pale eyes, and the expression now is not pity, but something else – he almost looks _hurt_. _Right,_ John thinks, the anger building to critical mass, _I’m the one being publicly humiliated and_ he’s _acting hurt? Fuck this._ John wrenches his arm out of Sherlock’s grasp and stands up.

         “John—“ Sherlock starts.

         “Leave. Me. _Alone_ ,” John grinds out, roughly pushing his chair out of the way, grabbing his bag, and storming out of the dining hall to the sounds of whoops and catcalls. He can feel the tears threatening to fall again, and angrily swipes at his eyes. He doesn’t even know where he’s going until he ends up outside his dorm. _I can’t do this,_ he thinks. _I can’t wait a whole week._ He lets himself into the building and practically runs to his room, slamming the door behind him. Reaching under his bed, he pulls out his suitcase and begins to empty his dresser drawers into it.

         The door to the hallway opens quietly behind him, and shuts again. John doesn’t bother to look – he knows it’s Sherlock by the aroma of cigarette smoke that follows the older boy like a cloud. He hears the creak of Sherlock’s bedsprings behind him, indicating that his roommate has just sat down.

         “Well, if you want to leave, go ahead, but you’re going to miss the fun,” Sherlock drawls.

         “What fun?” John replies tightly, intensely focused on his packing.

         “Mike invented a new virus and we’re going to release it in Anderson’s room,” Sherlock says.

         John whirls around in time to see the smug grin fall off of Sherlock’s face. “The other night I needed your help and all you wanted to do was goof off!” he yells.

         Sherlock at least has the good grace to look crestfallen. “I did help you. I tried to help you relax.”

         “Yeah, being dressed down by my professor in front of a few dozen of my fellow students is not my idea of relaxing, thanks,” John growls. “You know, I thought this place was going to be different, but it’s just the same. In high school they stuffed me in a mailbox, did I tell you that?” he shouts, hands clenched into fists at his sides

         Sherlock rises from his bed and crosses over to stand right in front of John, so close that John has no choice but to look Sherlock in the eye. “My teachers hated me because I was smarter than they were. Students hated me because I blew the Bell curve. Sound familiar? John, I used to be just like you. My mother dressed me in white shirts, polyester trousers, and Hush Puppies and made me carry a briefcase, guaranteeing that _no one_ would ever talk to me. And when I first came here for three years I _studied_ – all the time.”

         John is taken aback. “You?” he asks weakly, and he’s not referring to the studying so much as he is to the rest of what Sherlock said.

         “Yes. And then one night I had a visitor. I believe you’ve already met him.”

         “Who, the guy in the closet?”

         “Yes. Otherwise known as my brother, Mycroft.”

         “What- your _brother???_ What’s he doing living in the closet?”

         Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, he doesn’t _live_ there. He holds a minor position in the US government, which basically means he _is_ the US government. He comes here periodically because he works on the House Appropriations Committee, and he is tracking some misappropriated funds. The trail has led him to the Air Force base a few miles from here. _Anyway._ Mycroft came to visit me. Said I was letting myself care too much about what other people thought of me, and running myself ragged as a result. ‘ _Caring is not an advantage’,_ he said to me, and he’s right – up to a point.” Sherlock’s gaze softens. “He also told me that when you’re smart, people _need_ you, but you have to learn to use your mind creatively. It’s not all about passing the tests and finishing the projects – it’s also about doing what makes _you_ happy.”

         John drops his eyes. He feels like he’s been running a race, and his whole body sags. Sherlock reaches over and pushes John’s suitcase out of the way, and guides the younger boy to sit down, then sits down next to him. “Most people are idiots – as I’m sure you’ve figured out,” Sherlock says. “That includes the three stooges in the lab. Don’t worry about what they think of you. You’re not here for them, you’re here for _you_. You will never make everyone like you, so don’t even try.” Sherlock hesitates. “I know how you feel – what it feels like to think that you have no friends. As a general rule, I _don’t_ have friends.”

         John looks up at Sherlock, who is wearing a positively pained expression. “Oh, well—that’s fine, if that’s the way you want—“ he stammers, but Sherlock raises his hand to stop him.

         “I don’t have _friends_ , John. But I’d like to think that I have _one_.” Sherlock reaches over to where John’s left hand is resting on the bed, and covers it with his right. “Please, don’t leave.”

         John feels pinned by Sherlock’s pale eyes, as if somehow he’s become the most interesting thing in the world to the older boy. He turns his hand in Sherlock’s and they lace their fingers together. They lean towards each other, pulled together by some invisible force, until their eyes close and their lips touch in a soft kiss. John feels Sherlock’s left hand on his neck, those long fingers brushing through his straight hair, and he mirrors the action with his own right hand, threading through the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Their mouths move gently together as they scoot even closer on the bed, their hands disengaging so that their arms can wrap around each other. Somewhere in the back of his mind, John registers that this is his first kiss, ever, and how lucky is he to be kissing this beautiful, intelligent man next to him. In the dining hall he’d been sure that this was the worst day of his life; now he knew that no day before could have possibly been better than this.

         Eventually the biological necessity of breathing forces the boys to part reluctantly, panting slightly from the prolonged absence of oxygen. Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s, his coffee-and-tobacco tinged breath ghosting across John’s cheek. “That was – that was, um – that was good,” Sherlock stammers breathlessly.

         John tries but fails to suppress his chuckle. Sherlock, tongue-tied – now there was a new experience. “So what now?” the younger boy asks. “Anderson and his gang just fucking humiliated me in front of a good portion of the school. If I stay, how do I even begin to face them, or anyone else?”

         Sherlock reaches up and strokes John’s face with his fingertips. “The first thing you should do is get even with Anderson. It’s a moral imperative,” he declares with a grin.

         John grins back. “Oh God, yes.”


	9. I'll do my best to beat the rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock take their revenge on Anderson for the dining hall prank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not get a chance to edit this perhaps as thoroughly as I would have liked. Please let me know if the tenses get screwed up again, or if you notice any other glaring errors, and I'll fix them before I post the next chapter. I'm on vacation this week, so there most likely will NOT be an update next weekend, but I will do my level best!

It is well known across campus that Anderson is inordinately fond of his lemon-yellow 1972 Citroen DS. How he even keeps the car running, let alone affords the fuel for it, is a mystery, but never has a car suited its driver more. Not many students had cars of their own, and they certainly weren’t allowed to park them in front of the dorms; students lucky enough to have their own set of wheels were relegated to a gravel lot in the back of beyond, on the other side of campus. Anderson, however, paid no attention to the campus parking regulations, and up to this point, had somehow managed to avoid being caught.

The key words being, _up to this point._

Two days after the incident in the dining hall, Sherlock and John decide to exact their revenge on Anderson. Sherlock, of course, comes up with the plan of attack, and recruits Mike and Molly to assist with the operation. After performing a little reconnaissance work earlier in the day, the older boy sits down at John’s desk (his own being far too cluttered with the three experiments he’s currently conducting) to write a couple of notes for their co-conspirators.

He hears John come up behind him as he’s writing. “What, can’t use your own desk?” the younger boy teases, ruffling Sherlock’s curls affectionately. Sherlock waves a dismissive hand in the direction of his desk, and hears John sigh in fond exasperation. “Of course,” John says long-sufferingly. He leans over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Room 221. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient come anyway. Could be dangerous. SH,” he reads as Sherlock copies the note to another sheet of looseleaf paper. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“It’s hardly an exaggeration, and there is the very real danger that we will be caught. I felt they should be warned,” Sherlock replies, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He finishes scrawling the notes (“Are you sure they’ll be able to read your chicken scratch?” John needles) and stuffs them into envelopes labeled for the recipients. Dashing out of the room, he slides one under Mike’s door and the other under Molly’s door, then returns to their room, shutting the door behind him.

“How do you know they’re in their rooms?” John asks.

“I spoke to each of them earlier, they know to expect a communication from me,” Sherlock said, favouring John with a rare grin.

“Bit cloak-and-dagger, though, isn’t it? I think Mycroft is rubbing off on you,” John says, unable to resist teasing Sherlock about his older brother. Sherlock keeps up the pretense of barely tolerating Mycroft, but he suspects that John sees right through that act.

“John Watson, if you expect to kiss me with that mouth, you will not utter that name ever again,” Sherlock pouts. John laughs, a low chuckle laced with affection, and walks over to where Sherlock is sitting on his bed, leaning down and placing a chaste kiss on his lips. Sherlock is still glaring at him, but his eyes flutter shut at the contact and he responds to the touch of John’s mouth on his.

A knock at the door causes John to back away, clearing his throat and blushing madly. Sherlock wishes he could pull the younger boy back into a proper kiss, but now is not the time. He knows that Mike and Molly have noticed the shift in their relationship, but both he and John have an unspoken agreement to confine the more obvious signs of mutual affection to their room for now. Especially since Anderson, Donovan and Dimmock would likely tell the whole university, and while Sherlock could give a toss what the school thinks of him, he refuses to put John in the position of being humiliated.

John crosses over to the door and opens it to find Mike and Molly waiting expectantly. Sherlock watches him usher the two in and shut the door behind them, then puts out the two desk chairs for their partners in crime before sitting on his own bed. A quick glance between the roommates assures Sherlock that John is only sitting so far away because they have company, and he looks forward to the time later tonight when they’ll have the room to themselves again.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how John had managed to topple all of his inner walls and defenses against love and sentiment, but somehow without even trying the blond had made himself absolutely necessary in the older boy’s life. One of his motives for organizing the pool party had been to get John to loosen up, have some fun, and stop repressing his feelings – oh yes, Sherlock had noticed from the very first day that John was attracted to him – but that plan had backfired spectacularly with Anderson’s interference. Tonight wasn’t just about getting even for John’s sake; Sherlock owed Anderson a little payback, too.

“So what’s the plan?” Molly asks, sitting eagerly on the edge of her seat.

“I tailed Anderson and Donovan earlier today and heard them make plans to meet in the lab later, though judging from their body language and tonal inflection, ‘working in the lab’ is a euphemism for ‘let’s go back to your room and have sex all night.’”

All of the occupants of the room, including Sherlock, look visibly ill at that particular thought.

“Moving right along,” John says, uncomfortably.

“Right – yes. Molly, you’re our lookout. Anderson will park in front of the dorm as he always does. Then he and Donovan will head over to the lab to keep up appearances before going back to her room, where they – “

“Too much information!” John interrupts loudly.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Sherlock says, pointedly glaring at John for his outburst, “Mike, John and I will hide behind the hedge. When Anderson and Donovan are out of sight, signal us. Got it?”

“Got it,” Molly says nervously.

Sherlock looks at John and Mike. Mike is apprehensive, but the look of complete trust in John’s eyes – as well as the mischievous grin playing at the corners of his mouth in anticipation of the evening’s activities – causes a flare of warmth in the older boy’s chest. He grins back at the younger boy, who smiles widely in response.

“All right. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

John, Sherlock, and Mike listen from behind the hedge as Molly sits on the front steps of the dorm, reading a book. Well, she was _supposed_ to be reading a book; John doesn’t need Sherlock’s powers of deduction to see, as he peers around the edge of the shrubbery, that she is clearly nervous about her role in this endeavor, looking up every few seconds from the page that she’s been reading for the last fifteen minutes. He just hopes that Anderson would take no notice of her when he pulls up.

“Stop worrying, John, the plan is flawless,” Sherlock rumbles in his ear, and John feels the older boy’s arm wrap around his shoulders. He startles briefly at the touch, then relaxes into it, Sherlock’s baritone reverberating through his body to places he could ill afford to pay attention to right this second. He casts a sideways glance at Mike, who just shakes his head and grins.

“Says you,” John growls back at his friend ( _boyfriend?_ John wonders; they haven’t really discussed terms of endearment yet). “Tell me again which one of us set his bed on fire last week even though that particular experiment was _guaranteed_ to be perfectly safe?” He can’t see the resulting pout, but he can practically _feel_ it, and turns his head to place a quick peck on Sherlock’s cheek before the older boy can kick up much of a fuss.

“Shhh – this is him now,” Sherlock hisses.

“How do you know – oh, never mind,” John corrects himself, realizing that _of course_ Sherlock would be able to differentiate the sound of Anderson’s car from any other vehicle on campus. They can’t see the car from behind the hedge – it makes a lovely wall but a lousy window – but they do hear it as the car comes to a stop and the engine turns off. Two car doors open, then close, and John can just barely make out the conversation.

“…Yeah, but Holmes has that locked,” Donovan says.

“Well maybe he _doesn’t_ ,” Anderson replies smugly.

“What do you know that I don’t?”

“All I’m saying, is that nothing is set in stone. If his hare-brained idea to increase the power doesn’t work, Jim’ll have his head.” Anderson sounds positively gleeful at such a prospect.

John glances quickly at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes in response. The voices fade as the pair walk further away, until neither their footfalls nor their conversation can be heard anymore. John’s knees are stiff from crouching for so long, but he bears the discomfort, knowing that the reward will be sweet, and, to quote one of his favourite movies, that revenge is indeed a dish that is best served cold.

“Okay, pssst! Come on! Come on you guys, they’re gone!” Molly hisses loudly from the steps. All three boys pop up from behind the hedge like a pack of prairie dogs and scurry over to Anderson’s car. John and Mike are carrying tool boxes containing an assortment of tools that Sherlock managed to beg, borrow or steal from God knows who or where over the last day and a half. Molly joins them as they crouch in front of the Citroen’s bumper and open the boxes. Sherlock gestures at the license plate, which reads ANDRSON.

“Anderson puts his name on his license plate,” Sherlock scoffs.

“My mother does the same thing with my underwear,” John mutters.

“Your mother puts license plates in your underwear? How do you sit?” Sherlock deadpans.

John cuffs the taller boy upside his head of curls. “Laugh it up, fuzzball.”

Sherlock glares at John, who sighs exasperatedly. “Come on, genius,” John cajoles, “tell us what we need to do.”

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Sherlock and John are back in their room, curled around each other in John’s bed under a light blanket. Sherlock claims that while his bed is fine for sitting, it is still too smoky from last week’s aborted experiment for him to actually use for sleeping. John knows the truth, that this is just an excuse for Sherlock to sleep with him, and given that their relationship is still extremely new, they haven’t progressed beyond kissing and cuddling, so _sleeping_ is pretty much all that happens when they share John's bed. He suspects that in spite of Sherlock’s age, the older boy is just as inexperienced at this “going out” thing as John is, and that’s fine, really – there are no expectations, and no pressure to do something that neither of them is quite ready to do. Besides, this right here – the kisses, the soft touches, the simple sharing of space – was lovely, and far more than John had ever hoped to find with anyone, let alone this gorgeous creature who currently is doing his best impression of an octopus as he wraps his long limbs even more securely around John’s slight form.

John presses a kiss into Sherlock’s dark chestnut curls and pulls the lanky teen closer to him. Sherlock is laying half on his side, half on top of John, his ear resting on the smaller boy’s chest, arms encircling John’s torso, and one long leg thrown over his thighs, pinning him in place. Not that John cares one whit about getting up; he could probably stay like this all week if it weren’t for annoying things like bathroom trips and food. He tries not to think too far into the future, to a time when Sherlock will graduate and John will be left behind for at least another three years of study. He shakes his head fractionally and focuses on the present.

“Can’t wait to see the look on Anderson’s face,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock hums affirmatively and turns his head just enough to drop a kiss along John’s jaw. “You were absolutely fantastic tonight, you know that?” the younger boy says.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Sherlock says quietly.

“And Mike and Molly, of course,” John reminds him.

“Yes, of course, but if it had come down to it, you and I could have done it ourselves. I, however, would not have been able to carry it out on my own.”

John gasps in mock surprise. “Dost mine ears deceive me? Is the great Sherlock Holmes admitting that he needed _help_ with something?”

Sherlock grumbles and burrows further down under the blanket in a nearly fetal position while still maintaining contact with as much of John as possible. “Oh come on, you, stop pouting,” John says, using his now-freed hand to tousle Sherlock’s hair.

“I do _not_ pout,” comes the muffled response from under the blanket.

“Yeah you do,” John argues. The edge of the blanket flips back to reveal a pair of pale eyes glaring up at him from under a fringe of dark hair, and John cannot contain his mirth any longer. He laughs and hauls Sherlock up from under the blanket until the taller boy is unceremoniously sprawled on top of him, yelping in surprise. John silences any further protests with a long, lingering kiss.

 

* * *

 

_"What the fuck happened to my car?!?!?”_

Sherlock practically falls out of John’s bed when he hears the shout next door, and only by the grace of John’s quick reflexes is he pulled back from the edge. Grinning widely at his friend, he jumps up and grabs his dressing gown, shrugging it on and tying the sash loosely over his t-shirt and boxer shorts. John yawns and gets out of bed as well, taking his own gown off the back of his desk chair and pulling it on over a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, not bothering to tie the sash. Sherlock opens the door cautiously and peeks out, before opening the door wider and pulling John out into the hall.

Anderson is standing in the doorway to his room, looking as if he’d been hit by a bolt of lightning. A small crowd was gathering around his room, giggling under their breaths and casting approving looks at Sherlock and John. The younger boy sees Mike and Molly wander over, wearing carefully schooled expressions of placid indifference. John hadn’t seen the finishing touches that Sherlock put on the project, Sherlock insisting that he wait until, as he called it, “the big reveal”.

John peers around the corner into Anderson’s room. There in place of the bed, rising and falling on hydraulics as if it were breathing, was the body of the Citroen DS. The headlights were flashing on and off like Christmas lights, giving it the look of a dragon guarding its treasure.

Sherlock sidles up to stand next to Anderson. “Hey, Anderson, that’s your car,” he says in mock wonder.

John can’t resist. “Anderson, you _know_ you’re not supposed to park that on campus,” he says, moving to stand next to Sherlock.

Anderson whirls around, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “You know this isn’t funny. You’ve gone too far this time,” he protests, pointing a finger at Sherlock’s chest.

“I had help,” Sherlock says smugly, throwing his arm around John’s shoulders. John gives Anderson his best shit-eating grin.

Anderson glares at John. “You, huh? Well I’m going to get you guys. Dr. Moriarty’s going to hear all about this. You know you’ll rue the day!” He runs down the hall toward the entrance, and could not look more like a five year old on a mission to tattle to his Mommy if he tried.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “’Rue the day’? Who talks like that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Citroen DS is NOT a Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy reference (in a deleted scene, Benedict Cumberbatch's Peter Guillam tells Ciaran Hinds' Roy Bland that he drives a Citroen DS). I did a quick bit of research and discovered that the car that Kent drives in "Real Genius" is, in fact, a 1972 yellow Citroen DS:
> 
> http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ImprobablyCoolCar  
> http://www.imcdb.org/vehicle_49434-Citroen-DS-21-1972.html


	10. And be the best in the nation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets an intriguing young woman at Professor Moriarty's house - and has a confrontation with the professor himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - I was on vacation last week and didn't get back until Monday night, then had to go back to work on Tuesday. I actually wrote this chapter while on vacation, but it needed editing and I didn't have the time to do that this week. I will try my best to get another chapter out next weekend! Thanks to everyone who has read/subscribed/left kudos/commented on this fic!

          Sherlock fully expected Anderson to make good on his threat to report his and John’s reconfiguration of Anderson’s car to Professor Moriarty, and sure enough, the professor summons Sherlock to his home for another meeting that same evening. As the lanky teen approaches Moriarty’s house, he flicks the butt of his cigarette into the street, then vaults effortlessly over the fence. He takes the porch stairs two at a time, ringing the doorbell as he lands lightly on the doormat.

          The door opens, and Sherlock is momentarily caught off guard by the sight of someone who is definitely _not_ his professor standing there. Instead, there is a petite young woman, about his age, with long, dark, wavy hair pinned up in an elegant chignon. She is wearing a tailored blouse and pencil skirt, and black patent four-inch heels. Her grey-blue eyes flash as she regards him warily. Sherlock frowns.

          “Can I help you?” the girl asks, sizing him up in his Sex Pistols t-shirt, cut-off khaki shorts, and faded black Chucks, her tone suggesting that she’s just as suspicious of Sherlock as he is of her.

          “I don’t know, _can_ you?” he replies, walking through the open door as if she isn’t there.

          “You must be Sherlock Holmes,” the girl says, shutting the door behind him.

          “I see my reputation precedes me,” Sherlock drawls, turning slowly as he takes in his surroundings. The renovations to Jim’s house appear to be nearing completion, and Sherlock files away this tidbit of information for later consideration. “And you are…?”

          The girl extends a finely-boned, well-manicured hand, her nails adorned with blood red polish that matches her lipstick. “Irene Adler,” she says.

          Sherlock reluctantly shakes the offered hand and drops it as quickly as he can. He fixes an appraising stare on the girl. “Jim asked me to stop by. What did he ask you to do?”

          “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Irene purrs.

          “Actually, no I wouldn’t. I have no interest in Jim’s sexual proclivities.”

          “That’s a hell of an assumption, considering we just met,” Irene bites back acidly, crossing her arms under her breasts in a defensive posture.

          “Deduction, not assumption.” Sherlock looks her up and down analytically. “You’re comfortable enough to greet a guest at the door in a house that’s not yours. Your posture suggests that you feel you have a right to be here but that I do not. Your frame is petite but you have well-defined arm muscles, and your right arm is just slightly larger than your left, suggesting that you are right-hand dominant. And your right palm” – he moves closer, picking up her right hand where it rests on her left arm and turning it palm side up – “has calluses where you’ve gripped a hard, thin, cylindrical object firmly, but the object moves within your grasp. So: well defined arms and calluses on your right hand tell me you’ve been swinging something you hold in your right hand – a whip, perhaps, or a riding crop. So, Jim likes it rough, does he?”

          Irene’s mouth thins into a red slash, and her eyes glitter with barely concealed anger. “That’s none of your business, particularly if, as you said, you have no interest in _Dr. Moriarty’s_ sexual proclivities,” she hisses, placing emphasis on Jim’s title and surname as if to imply that Sherlock should not be on a first-name basis with his professor.

          Sherlock smirks. “Of course. And besides, that’s not why you’re here tonight.”

          “And how do you know that?” Irene demands, rather than asks.

          “The door to Jim’s study is closed, and I hear two voices through the door. One is obviously Jim; the other is an unidentified male. They are having a rather intense discussion, judging from their intonation and pacing of speech. There is a black Crown Vic parked next to Jim’s Mercedes – a government vehicle, judging from the license plates, most likely belonging to the other man in the study. Knowing Jim as I do, I can say that he typically doesn’t bring his, shall we say, ‘partners’, home with him – he prefers that they have their own transportation – and judging by your hairstyle and your designer clothes, not to mention your shoes which clearly cost three figures, you wouldn’t be caught dead in a cab. Conclusion: you came here with the other person in Jim’s study, and that person is unaware of yours and Jim’s sexual relations.”

          “You’re very… observant,” she acknowledges.

          “Thank you.”

          “I’m flattered.”

          “Don’t be.”

          “Ah,” she says, giving Sherlock an appraising look. “You bat for the other team. Pity that, you look like you’d be quite the ride. And look at those cheekbones! I could cut myself slapping that face, but I doubt your boyfriend would approve.”

          Sherlock’s brain stutters to a halt, and he can feel a blush creep across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. How does this girl, whom he’d only just met, know that he’s in a relationship, and more specifically, a relationship with another boy? The only other person who has ever read him so well is John. The difference between Irene and John – well, one of many differences – is in the intent. John reads Sherlock because he cares about him as a friend, and now as more than a friend, and has become attuned to Sherlock’s moods and habits. Irene reads people to gain a tactical advantage, and she uses that advantage to further her own agenda which, at this point, Sherlock has yet to deduce. There’s something vaguely unsettling about that notion. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, and an uncomfortable silence settles over the foyer.

          The door to the study opens. “Finally, what it comes down to is if you can’t do it, we’ll have to find somebody else. I have a timetable,” says a tall, balding, broad-shouldered man in a suit and tie, walking out ahead of Jim, who is dressed more casually in a button-down shirt and trousers. Sherlock sees a familial resemblance between the unidentified man and Irene.

          “Your father, I presume,” Sherlock says under his breath. She nods but says nothing.

          “We’re really very close, Dave,” says Jim smoothly. He briefly makes eye contact with Sherlock, his expression clearly telling the teen to keep his mouth shut, and for the moment Sherlock complies. He’s already decided that in this particular situation, he’ll learn more by listening than by talking.

          “’Close’ isn’t good enough. ‘Close’ is as good as failure. You have four weeks. I think I’ve made my point, haven’t I?” David Adler’s posture is relaxed, but his tone of voice is steely.

          “Crystal clear. Really,” Jim grinds out. Sherlock is mildly intrigued to see his professor on the back foot, and surmises that this may not bode well for their impending discussion.

          “Right. Good luck, Jim. I’ll be in touch.” The man turns to his daughter. “Come along, Irene.”

          Irene nods and turns to Sherlock. “It’s been a pleasure,” she says with a knowing smirk.

          “Miss Adler,” he says cordially.

          Irene smiles widely, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and the effect is more of a wolf baring its teeth. “Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she calls over her shoulder as she follows her father out the door.

          Sherlock watches her go, his face a mask of impassivity. Jim shuts the door firmly behind his guests, and Sherlock focuses on his professor. The man’s breathing rate is elevated, likely from the stress of the conversation with Mr. Adler. The frown lines in his forehead are more pronounced, and his posture is stiff, guarded. _So he’s promised something to Mr. Adler, and has yet to deliver. Interesting._

          “What are you doing here?” Jim spits out.

          Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “You said to come over,” he replies evenly. He’s determined not to let Jim’s foul temper goad him into anything.

          Jim walks back to the study. “Stay off the rug,” he barks. Sherlock ignores him. “Take off your shoes. Sit down.” The professor rounds the corner of his desk, but does not sit.

          Sherlock plops down inelegantly in one of the guest chairs and slowly takes off his Chucks. The teen knows Jim’s waiting until he’s done, because he wants every last second of Sherlock’s attention, and this in turn encourages him to take his sweet time untying and peeling off his trainers. Once they are off and dropped next to his seat, Sherlock leans back, folding his hands across his midsection, one ankle crossed casually over the other knee. “So, you wanted to see me?” he asks.

          “You are no longer of any use to me!” Jim shouts, pointing an accusing finger in Sherlock’s direction.

          Sherlock’s eyes widen in mild surprise. “That’s an interesting way to open a conversation.”

          “I’m giving Anderson the Darlington job,” Jim adds smugly.

          Sherlock’s grin is feral. “Did you suddenly find humor? You already gave me the job.”

          “You need a degree.”

          “I can pass your exam.”

          “Even if you pass, you don’t pass. In fact, I don’t see why you don’t leave the campus right now.” Jim crosses his arms as if the discussion is over.

          “Fine.” Sherlock picks up his Chucks and stands. “I will go to Dr. Lestrade, and the work I’ve done on the laser alone should merit a degree.”

          Jim spreads his arms wide. “You can tell Lestrade anything you like. Who’s he going to believe, you or me?”

          Sherlock is stunned. “You can’t do this.”

          “It’s done.” Jim looks angry but satisfied. “You’re out. Now leave. And I will _personally_ ensure that you _never_ work in this field again.”

          “You unbelievable bastard.” Sherlock clenches his fists, one hand still holding his shoes.

          “I tried to warn you, but did you listen?” Jim singsongs, his eyes glinting cruelly and his teeth bared.

          Sherlock sets his jaw. He must concede this round, back off, and regroup. There is new information to consider – Jim’s relationship with the mysterious Irene Adler, and what it may or may not have to do with her father’s deadline for Jim’s project – and right now, he can barely focus on breathing properly. He needs to talk to John, and possibly even Mycroft. Without another word, he turns and walks out of the study and the house, making sure to slam the front door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

          John comes back to the room after his study group that evening to find that Sherlock is not there. He wonders if his friend was still meeting with Professor Moriarty, but a quick glance around the room reveals that Sherlock has discarded the clothes he was wearing earlier and his pajamas and robe are missing, so he must have changed and then left the room. John smiles to himself; Sherlock’s been trying to teach him about deduction, and he’s rather proud that he’s figured this one out on his own. Unfortunately it still doesn’t answer where Sherlock is _now,_ until he sees the open window across from the door. Crossing over to Sherlock’s side of the room, he smells the unmistakable odor of burning tobacco. John pokes his head out the window, where he spies Sherlock sitting on the rooftop ledge of the attached maintenance building, looking up at the stars as a half-smoked cigarette dangles between two long fingers. John climbs out onto the roof and walks over to him. Drawing up alongside the older teen, he rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

          “Hey, what’s on your mind?” John ventures, concerned by his friend’s unnatural stillness.

          Sherlock starts a bit, then leans almost imperceptibly into John’s touch and takes a drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Self-realization. I was thinking of the immortal words of Socrates, who said, ‘I drank what?’”

          John frowns. It doesn’t take a genius to deduce that the meeting with Moriarty didn’t go well. “What happened?”

          “Moriarty is going to flunk me out of school.”

          John sits down next to Sherlock, stunned. All this time he’d been worried that he, John, would get kicked out of Pacific Tech, but what could Sherlock have done to merit such a harsh disciplinary action four weeks from graduation? “Why?” he asks.

          Sherlock takes another drag of his cigarette. “I screwed up,” he offers cryptically.

          John swallows hard around the lump in his throat. Sherlock’s graduation looms over their nascent relationship like a persistent black cloud; the knowledge that they would be separated by distance and/or circumstance come June is something the younger boy doesn’t know how to process, and he is afraid to ask Sherlock about their future as a couple, if indeed there even _is_ a future for them. “What are you going to do?” he asks, fighting to keep his voice carefully neutral.

          Sherlock takes one last drag of his cigarette, then flicks the cherry off the end of the butt and drops it on the roof. He shifts and lays down on his back along the broad ledge, resting his head in John’s lap. “I guess I’ll leave,” he sighs, closing his eyes.

          John’s hand threads through Sherlock’s curls on its own accord. “You can’t leave,” he says, wincing as his voice cracks.

          “I have little choice in the matter,” Sherlock rumbles.

          “What about Dr. Lestrade?”

          “Moriarty implied that no matter what I did, it wouldn’t matter, and Lestrade would believe him over me.”

          “If you quit, you’re giving in to Moriarty. Finish the semester, then you’ll have what you need to convince Lestrade,” John offers hopefully.

          “I don’t believe it’s worth the effort,” Sherlock sighs.

          “What about the laser?”

          “What about it?”

          “Don’t you want to see a five megawatt laser fire, just once?”

          “That would be nice,” Sherlock concedes.

          Now it was John’s turn to sigh. “You have to finish what you start.”

          Sherlock smirks. “Who said that?”

          John ruffles Sherlock’s curls. “You _know_ that.”

          Sherlock opens his eyes and gazes at John. The younger boy smiles in return, seeing the warm affection in those pale eyes. “Of course, John, but that’s no way to motivate anyone,” Sherlock says.

          John took the hint. “You have to get even with Jim Moriarty,” he intones gravely. “It’s a moral imperative.”

          Sherlock grins and sits up. “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he murmurs, capturing John’s lips in a kiss.


	11. Don't give a damn what else I am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John buckle down to study for exams and work on the laser, and receive some unexpected help from an unlikely ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't have a lot of action in it, but it does have some important interactions that diverge from the movie plot, so I hope it doesn't feel _too_ much like filler. Think of it more as a setup for the rest of the story, or the calm before the storm.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading/commenting/kudoing/subscribing/bookmarking! It's all love, and I'm very grateful!

          Sherlock takes John’s words to heart, and over the next couple of weeks, he and John are practically model students. John is amazed to see Sherlock regularly attending classes (including one memorable day when he attended Professor Moriarty’s class wearing a button-down shirt, jeans, and mouse slippers), working in the lab, and studying. John feels like a zombie most days, or a vampire; about the only time he sees sunlight is while walking from one class to another. One upside of his and Sherlock’s resolution to buckle down on their studies is that he’s finally convinced his stubborn roommate to eat regular meals. They take their books with them to the dining hall and quiz each other over mystery meat and mashed potatoes that have more resemblance to library paste than tuberous roots, but John takes his victories where he can get them.

          Progress on the laser is slow, but every failure brings them that much closer to the solution. After one minor explosion that singed Anderson’s eyebrows off, Sherlock backtracks over weeks of work and finds a new solution that increases the output to four megawatts – still short of Moriarty’s required five, but Sherlock is confident he could boost it just a little more. At this point, Sherlock and John are doing most of the work on the laser; Anderson, Donovan, and Dimmock can barely keep up with the pair’s innovations.

          The due date for completing the laser, which coincides with the first day of final exams, is one week away, and the whole campus seems to be caught up in last minute cramming. The common room in the dorm is packed most nights with students occupying every available piece of furniture, books and papers strewn about them as they study. Only the rustle of pages and the scratches of pens and pencils are heard. Sherlock is sitting at the large table in the center of the room and John is directly behind him on a sofa along one of the walls, when it happens. One of the students pushes away from the table, stands up, and starts screaming, having finally cracked from the pressure. Everyone else in the room looks up at the boy with mild interest as he screams at everyone, then runs out of the room, continuing to scream down the hall. John is shocked – this kid just loses it in front of everyone, and _no one_ seems to care! Once the student is gone, it’s like a seventh-inning stretch in the common room - everyone shifts in their chairs, stretching and yawning, before settling down again, and Mike gets up from a nearby armchair to take the student’s place at the table. Sherlock turns to look at John and gives him a small smile, which John returns with an incredulous shake of his head, then resumes his studying.

          Later that night, Sherlock and John are the only ones left in the common room. John had moved to the table a couple hours before, but he’s exhausted and can barely keep his eyes open. The next thing he knows, he’s back in high school and three students are dragging him to a mailbox, folding him in half and trying to stuff him in. He realizes with horror that it’s Anderson, Donovan, and Dimmock, and he shouts for them to stop, but they’re not listening…

          “John… John!” a familiar baritone calls.

          John’s head jerks up from where it had been resting on his advanced calculus book, and he blinks a couple of times, feeling disoriented. His arm is still resting across the table, and he feels something pressing on it. Looking down he sees Sherlock’s hand gripping his forearm, undoubtedly from when he was trying to wake up his roommate. John looks up into pale eyes full of concern.

          “John, it’s late. Go to bed. It’s not like we’re driving or anything.”

          John nods, unable to speak. His mouth feels like he had swallowed cotton, thick and dry with disuse. He pushes back from the table and stands on wobbling legs as he gathers his books and notes.

          “Good evening, gentlemen,” a voice says from behind him. John whips around to find Mycroft Holmes standing there, impeccably dressed as always, even though it was eleven o’clock at night. One hand was perched on his ever-present umbrella; the other held a manila folder containing a sizable computer printout.

          “What are _you_ doing here,” Sherlock growls.

          “As ever, I am _concerned_ about you,” Mycroft says, drawing out his words.

          “Yes, I’ve heard of your – _concern_ ,” Sherlock bites back.

          “I’m not here to check up on you, dear brother,” Mycroft counters placatingly, “I’m here to help. I gained access to the university’s computer system and was able to procure every question that Professor Moriarty has ever asked on every final exam he’s ever given. I thought it might aid with your studying.”

          John looks at Sherlock, dumbfounded. Sherlock himself is looking suitably shocked at this generous gift from his brother.

          “And what do I owe you in return?” Sherlock asks, cautious.

          “Your assistance, when I have need of it, which I predict will be quite soon. Tell me, how is your laser project coming along for the good professor?”

          John feels as if he’s watching a tennis match, as the brothers artfully lob words like serves at each other. “ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock mutters.

          “Good, that’s good,” Mycroft simpers. “Solved the power problem yet?”

          John pipes up. “We’re very close. Sherlock came up with a new solution, and we’ve almost achieved the required five megawatts. We have a few more tests to run before we demonstrate it to Moriarty after his final exam next week. Right, Sherlock?”

          Sherlock initially glares at John, but John’s equally pointed expression – _now is not the time to antagonize your brother when he’s just handed you a gift, Sherlock_ – causes his gaze to soften. The older boy turns back to his brother. “Yes, that’s correct. All the data suggest that our latest build will result in a five megawatt charge.”

          Mycroft smiles. “Excellent, I am pleased to hear it. I’ll leave the test questions on your desk, Sherlock. Do keep me informed of your progress.”

          “Uh, better leave them on my desk, Mycroft. Sherlock’s desk is – well, it’s a bit _occupied_ at the moment,” John interjects quickly.

          “Yes, of course,” Mycroft says, favoring his younger brother with a condescending smile. Sherlock scowls in response. “My brother does love to experiment. What’s he like to live with, John? Hellish, I imagine?”

          “I’m never bored,” John quips with a smirk towards his friend. Sherlock wrinkles his nose back at the blond in a way that John can only describe as adorable, though he’d never say that aloud.

          “Well then, I’ll be on my way. Good luck with your exams, gentlemen,” Mycroft says with a twirl of his umbrella, turning and walking away toward Sherlock and John’s room.

          John sits back down, wide awake now. “Why does Mycroft care about a school project?” he asks his roommate.

          Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he stares off into the middle distance. “Not sure yet. It’s a mistake to theorize without all the facts. But knowing what my brother’s been working on these past few months, and based on a few other pieces of information I’ve picked up along the way, I’d say something big is coming.”

          “Well, come on, Mr. Dramatic. Whether you believe me or not, you’re exhausted too. Let’s get some sleep.” John stands and picks up his books and notes.

          Sherlock smiles and stands too, gathering his study materials. “After you, John.”

 

* * *

 

          Sherlock lay in bed wide awake, encircled in John’s arms while the younger boy snoozed peacefully. Even though Sherlock was both older and taller, somehow this arrangement of the two of them – John on his back, Sherlock curled into his side with John’s arms around him, and Sherlock’s head on John’s shoulder – was their default sleeping position. They had gone back to their room and, as expected, found the folder containing a printout of all of Moriarty’s test questions on John’s desk. No other markings on either the folder or the printout identified what the contents were or who gave it to them, but just to be safe, John locked the folder in his desk drawer. After they had gotten ready for bed and come back to their room, they enjoyed a leisurely make-out session in John’s bed before the young blond had dozed off. Sherlock smiles at the memory of being pressed against John from lips to knees, and the frisson of excitement that had started to burn within him during their making out catches fire again. He doesn’t want to rush John into anything more than what they have, but the fact remains that they are two teenage boys with raging hormones; logic suggests that eventually things will progress, assuming they stay together.

_Assuming…_

          If anything could douse the fire of arousal in Sherlock’s belly, it’s the thought of what would happen after graduation. The older teen was afraid to bring it up; he’s never felt this close to someone before, and until John came along he’d been fairly well convinced that he’d never find anyone who properly understood him – _and_ didn’t run away screaming once they did. John not only stayed, but also insinuated himself into every facet of Sherlock’s being so quietly and so smoothly that Sherlock is hard-pressed to remember what life was like _without_ the young blond boy in it. Instinctively he snuggles closer to John, and even in sleep John registers this movement and tightens his arms around Sherlock, kissing the taller boy’s wild curls before falling fully asleep again. Sherlock shoves the unpleasant idea of returning to a John-less life out of his mind. They still have a couple more weeks, and unfortunately, there is a much more pressing matter to ponder at this time.

          Sherlock knows that Mycroft isn’t helping him and John out of the goodness of his heart. It’s a bribe, but this time it works in Sherlock’s favour. After he’d returned from Moriarty’s house two weeks ago, but before John had found him smoking on the roof, Sherlock had gone down into the steam tunnels to Mycroft’s secret office, finding his brother hunched over the computer terminal, reconciling some budget figures that apparently weren’t adding up.

_“David Adler,” Sherlock says without preamble._

_“Yes, what about him?” Mycroft replies distractedly._

_“He was at Moriarty’s house tonight – right before the good professor expelled me.”_

_Mycroft looks up. “And why would he do that?”_

_“Apparently the progress on the laser is not to his satisfaction.”_

_“And how does David Adler figure into this?” Mycroft asks, steepling his fingers together in front of his mouth._

_“He’s expecting Moriarty to deliver something in four weeks, and has threatened to take his business elsewhere if Moriarty fails. Neither of them alluded to what that something is, but after Adler left with his daughter, Irene, Moriarty tore into me and as good as expelled me.” Sherlock takes a deep breath – he is still rattled by the conversation with his professor. “You wanted to know what Moriarty was up to – this is all I’ve got. I do have classes and exams, after all. I can’t do all of your_ legwork _.”_

_Mycroft drops his hands to the desk, and one corner of his mouth quirks into a half-grin. “Yes of course,” he says. “Thank you for this, Sherlock, it is very… enlightening. And how is John these days?”_

_“_ Fine _,” Sherlock growls. “Particularly when you don’t interrogate him like one of your minions.”_

_Mycroft’s expression is the very definition of placid. “Always so aggressive,” he muses, which only makes Sherlock clench his fists harder. “Has it never occurred to you that you and I belong on the same side?”_

_“Oddly enough,_ no _,” Sherlock fires back sarcastically._

_“We have more in common than you would like to believe, little brother,” Mycroft replies. “At any rate, I’ll be in touch. I do believe John is due back in your room in the next ten minutes; you might want to be there before he finds out where you_ really _are.”_

_“And how long are you staying this time?” Sherlock asks._

_“Not long; I’ll be taking a red-eye back to Dulles in a few hours.”_

_“Try not to start a war on the way home,” Sherlock sneers, turning abruptly and heading back the way he came._

          Sherlock replays this conversation in his mind. Somehow, there is a link between whatever Moriarty’s supposed to deliver to David Adler, and Mycroft’s investigation into the funds misappropriation. Closing his eyes, he drifts into his mind palace to try to find the answer, but the exhaustion of cramming for exams soon overtakes his efforts to stay awake, and he falls asleep in the safety and comfort of John’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dulles" is Washington Dulles International Airport (IAD), which is about 25 miles outside of Washington DC in the Virginia suburbs. It's a larger airport than Washington National Airport, which is also in Virginia but just across the Potomac River from DC. There are direct flights from LAX to IAD, and I can't imagine Mycroft wanting to take a flight that requires him to change planes, so it made more sense to have him fly to Dulles rather than National.


	12. I am the man in the making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John make significant progress with the laser, but a devastating setback threatens everything they've worked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, thanks for hanging in there and waiting for this! I really hope it's worth the wait. The action is starting to ramp up in this chapter, so enjoy!

               The morning of May 10th is a perfect Southern California day – sunny, cloudless, and comfortably warm. This is in stark contrast to the climate in Jim Moriarty’s campus office, which is stormy and chilly by comparison. David Adler sits in one of the guest chairs in front of Jim’s desk, right ankle crossed over left knee, hands folded loosely over his open suit jacket, the very picture of relaxation – if one doesn’t look too closely at his face, which looks to be carved out of stone as he glares at the professor behind the desk.

                Jim, for his part, is cool and collected. He was secretly pleased to hear that Holmes had not left campus, but instead turned into a model student over the last few weeks, and has been working with Watson night and day in the lab. According to Anderson, the pair haven’t accomplished much, but Jim knows that the older student is jealous of the two young prodigies, and would sooner stab his eyes out with toothpicks than say anything complimentary about either of them. Truth be told, all five of the students working on the laser are doing exactly what he wants them to do, particularly Holmes and Watson. He knows of their unusually close relationship - Holmes isn't nearly as discreet as he imagines himself to be - and counted on Watson talking Holmes into finishing out the semester. He didn’t count on Holmes throwing himself into the endeavor so enthusiastically, but so much the better. Smiling slightly, he regards his guest. “And what brings you here on this fine spring morning?”

                “You know why I’m here,” Adler says, the tightness of his voice betraying his otherwise relaxed posture. “You owe me a working laser in five days.”

                “Yes, five days,” Jim reiterates. “Not _today_.”

                “So you’re telling me that you have nothing to show me today, but that by the end of the week, you will have a fully functional laser?”

                Jim smiles, baring his teeth. “That is exactly what I am telling you.”

                “And you expect me to believe that?”

                “Frankly Dave, I don’t care what you believe. What I do care about is that I have exams to administer today, and you are taking up far too much of my time with your strong-arm tactics. The laser will be ready in five days.” Jim stands, indicating that the conversation is over, and walks around his desk and Adler to open the office door.

                Adler rises and faces Jim at the door. “I’m going to enjoy watching you fail, Professor,” he says coldly, looking just slightly downwards at Jim.

                Jim’s grin is feral. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

 

* * *

 

                Sherlock, John, Anderson, Donovan, and Dimmock have been in the lab since 7 o’clock in the morning, putting the finishing touches on the completed laser. Moriarty’s final exam is at 10, and the clock on the wall reads 9:50 as the students gather their books and notes. Sherlock performs the final checks on the laser assembly in preparation for testing the power output after Moriarty’s exam. “Well, that should just about do it, as long as you ‘stay cool’,” he says, pointing at the cooling assembly on the laser. Anderson rolls his eyes.

                “Come on girls,” Donovan calls out.

                “The only girl here is _you_ ,” Dimmock sneers, but follows her out of the lab.

                “You coming to the exam?” Anderson asks Sherlock, watching as he peers into an ordinary brown lunch bag.

                “Well I guess so, seeing as how Moriarty’s gone to the trouble of _having_ one and everything,” Sherlock replies, closing the lunch bag. Anderson notices a significant look pass between John and Sherlock, and the younger boy grins. “Coming, buddy boy?” Sherlock shoots back over his shoulder as he and John walk to the door.

                “Uh, I’ll catch up to you guys. I have to go to the bathroom,” Anderson says, trying to keep a tremor of nervousness out of his voice.

                Sherlock grins evilly. “Okay, Anderson. But I don’t think that’s going to help your confidence any. Do you?” he says, glancing pointedly at Anderson’s jeans. John fails to suppress a chuckle as he and Sherlock walk out of the lab, Sherlock’s arm around John’s shoulders.

                Anderson smirks. He knows that Sherlock and John think they’re keeping their relationship a secret, which plays right into his plans. He grabs an oil can from under the table and pumps a dollop of oil on his fingertips. He carefully smears a little bit of the oil on the optics of the laser, not enough to be noticed from a distance, but more than enough to cause damage once the laser is fired. And when that happens, Anderson will be all too happy to point out to Jim that Sherlock and John’s unorthodox relationship made them careless in the lab, and that it was their fault the laser was damaged. “Buddy boy, buddy boy. Let’s see how funny you think _this_ is, buddy boy.” He wipes his hands off with a paper towel, collects his books and notes, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

                Sherlock and John walk together to Moriarty’s classroom. “I wish I could be there when you test the laser,” John says.

                Sherlock squeezes John’s shoulders affectionately. “I know, but it wouldn’t do for you to skip one of your final exams just to watch me power up the laser. Don’t worry, I’ll record all the results and tell you about it later today.”

                “You? Record results? Surely you jest,” John says playfully.

                Sherlock lifts his arm from John’s shoulders and taps his temple. “Mind palace, remember? I don’t need to write anything down.”

                They watch Dimmock and Donovan enter Moriarty’s classroom, and Sherlock looks up and down the hall. Seeing no one, he crowds John up against the wall and kisses him soundly. John lets out a “Mmmf!” of surprise before enthusiastically responding, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. As quickly the kiss began it ends, leaving both Sherlock and John a little dazed.

                “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that for?” John asks, a bit breathless.

                Sherlock grins. “For luck.”

                “You don’t believe in luck.”

                “No, but I know _you_ do.” Sherlock give John another quick kiss and backs away. “Good luck on your exams,” he says, his hand on the classroom door.

                “You too,” John says. Sherlock opens the door and walks over to his seat, front row center. He places the brown paper bag carefully on the floor and pulls a yellow pencil out of his dark curls.

                “Alright –“ Moriarty starts, but is interrupted by Anderson’s tardy arrival. The weaselly-faced student takes his seat right next to Sherlock. “Alright,” Moriarty repeats. “We have exactly three hours for this. And remember we believe in the honor system boys and girls. It will be readily apparent to me how many of you have absorbed the material and how many of you haven’t. Take one and pass it back, just like your IQ was normal,” he says as he passes out the exam booklets.

                “Good luck, buddy boy,” Anderson sneers, leaning over his desk to get right in Sherlock’s face.

                Sherlock never raises his eyes from the booklet. “Do you mind if I name my first child after you? Dipshit Holmes has a nice ring to it.”

                The exam is laughably easy for a genius like Sherlock. He doesn’t rush through it, taking his time to answer all the questions on the blackboard in exhaustive detail, calling up all the necessary information from his mind palace as if he were accessing a computer disk. Other people are not faring so well, particularly Anderson, whom Sherlock notices out of his peripheral vision is worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, and glancing over at Sherlock from time to time. Finally Sherlock catches him at it and levels an icy stare at him, and Anderson’s eyes move quickly back to his own booklet.

               Even taking his time, Sherlock still finishes the exam well before everyone else. He tears off a corner of the unused back page, scribbles a note on it, closes the exam booklet, picks up the brown paper bag and walks over to Moriarty’s desk. He hands the professor the booklet, followed by the slip of paper which bears the letters I O U. Moriarty crumples the note and tosses it in the trashcan next to his desk. Sherlock reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a shiny red apple, setting it carefully on Moriarty’s desk, and walks out. Closing the door behind him, he waits for Moriarty to throw the apple away, and chuckles to himself when he hears the resultant explosion of the apple in the trashcan and a yelp of surprise from the professor.

               Sherlock heads back to the lab, cautiously confident that things might actually work out for him. If the laser finally puts out the requisite five megawatts, he knows that Moriarty will let him graduate. He sees now that Moriarty baited him with that tirade a few weeks ago, and Sherlock played right into his hands by continuing to study and work on the laser, but right now he doesn’t care about that. John was right – it's all worth it just to see a five-megawatt laser fire, just once, and now he is going to do just that.

               He enters the lab and closes the door, turning off the overhead light and switching on the red light that indicates that the laser is in use. The red light also illuminates a warning light outside the lab, so that anyone entering the lab would know to wear proper eye protection. He dons a red shielding vest and a pair of goggles as he moves behind the Plexiglas shield, and just for extra protection he puts on a safety visor. He pulls the remote control for the laser’s power assembly out of the pocket of the vest and presses the button.

               The laser fires, but almost immediately something goes horribly wrong. The assembly starts to burn, and then Sherlock sees it – the oily fingerprints on the optics, causing the beam to reflect back into the assembly, essentially destroying itself. “No, no, NO!” he shouts, banging on the Plexiglas shield with helpless rage. There is nothing he can do but watch as the laser assembly melts down and catches fire, and takes with it his hopes of graduating college and finally beating Moriarty at his own game.

                Sherlock slumps against the Plexiglas shield, watching the laser burn itself out. He waits until the laser stops sparking, then grabs a fire extinguisher and puts out the rest of the fire. As if on autopilot, he methodically works to clean up the mess; it’s something to keep his hands occupied while his brain works out how to cope with this unprecedented failure. He knows – he _knows_ – he wasn’t careless enough to smudge the optics, and the smudge pattern that he saw before the whole thing went up in a ball of fire looked deliberate – two oily fingerprints on an otherwise pristine piece of polished glass. In the course of his cleaning up, he spies the small oil can under the worktable. Sherlock pulls it out, and pumps a small amount onto his fingertips, then smears it against the Plexiglas shield. _So that’s it,_ he thinks, _the murder weapon_. The question now: who is the murderer? Sherlock rules out John immediately – not out of sentiment, but rather opportunity; John hadn’t been near the table before they left the lab. That leaves Anderson, Donovan, and Dimmock, all of whom had ample motive, and all of whom had been flitting around the table before they went to Moriarty’s exam. Sherlock sifts through his mind palace to see if he had looked at the optics before he left the lab this morning, but he cannot find a mental image clear enough to determine if the optics had been smudged before he left the lab. Growling in frustration, he finishes the cleanup of the lab. There is nothing else he can do.

                Sherlock walks slowly back to the dorm, hands in his pockets. The day is sunny and beautiful, but he barely sees it as he stares resolutely at the ground. His feet navigate up the steps of the dorm entrance and he pulls the door open, shuffling down the hall and trying to tamp down the rage and shame that threatens to engulf him. He hasn’t felt so helpless in over a year, since Mycroft’s visit to his room that one night. _Caring is not an advantage,_ his brother had said to him. _Your classmates are idiots, they are jealous of your brilliance. Don’t let them drag you down to their level._ Why _does_ Sherlock care what Moriarty thinks of him? Why _does_ he care about graduating, about building the laser? It doesn’t matter to him if he gets the Darlington job or not; he’s already decided to turn them down. As for the rest, well, Sherlock knows the answer: he has never failed at anything he set his mind to, until now. This isn’t about Moriarty, or the job, or the laser; this is about _winning_.

                “My condolences on your meltdown, Holmes,” sneers Anderson. Sherlock looks up – he’s in the hallway, next to the kitchen, and Anderson walks past him with a self-satisfied smirk. All of a sudden it hits him. _Anderson, of course. Motive, method, and opportunity, when he said he had to use the bathroom before the exam._

                “What meltdown, Anderson?” Sherlock says, carefully enunciating each word as he turns around slowly to face Anderson’s retreating back.

                Anderson’s steps falter, and he stops, turning to face Sherlock. “I’m not saying that you _had_ one, because how would I know. But just in case you _do_.”

                Sherlock’s gaze is hard enough to cut glass. “You slime,” he grits out.

                Anderson turns and resumes his walk down the hall. “It’s your own fault, Holmes. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to make sure your optics were clean?” he calls over his shoulder.

                Sherlock wanders into the kitchen, processing the exchange with Anderson. He had no doubt that the weasel was on his way to Moriarty now to inform the professor of the destruction of the laser. He whirls around and kicks the fridge, taking out his anger and frustration on the helpless inanimate object. The freezer door pops open with the force of the kick, and items fall out as Sherlock punches it closed. He slumps down onto the floor, his back to the fridge, and stares listlessly at the fallen items. To one side is a can of concentrated orange juice and the liquid nitrogen canister. To the other is the stick of liquid nitrogen itself, beginning to sublimate into the air. He looks from one, to the other, then back again, his brain kicking into high gear as he suddenly finds the solution to his problem – to several problems, in fact.

                Sherlock leaps up excitedly, laughing in spite of himself. _Of course!_ he thinks, tearing down the hallway and out of the dorm, letting his feet carry him to where he suspects John is most likely to be at the moment, all the while putting together his plan. _Frozen – the fuel has to be frozen! I have to find John!_ Sherlock’s legs carry him across campus; this is the fastest he’s run since high school, when sprinting was the only way he could avoid being stuffed in a locker. He pulls up short at the lecture hall where he’d brought John for some “relaxation” a couple months before, now adorned with a sign reading “EXAM WEEK DECOMPRESSION HERE”. Taking the stairs three at a time, he wrenches open the door and finds John sitting with Molly and Mike. “JOHN!” he shouts.

                John jumps up, startled. “Sherlock – what is it, are you ok?” he shouts across the din of the lecture hall, threading his way past a throng of students to where Sherlock is standing at the top of the hall.

                Sherlock fidgets in place, nearly hopping from foot to foot as he waits for John to come to him. As soon as John is in front of him, he can restrain himself no longer. He picks the smaller boy up and swings him around, planting a sloppy kiss on John’s mouth, one that John is far too startled to return.

                “So, how’d you do?” John asks weakly when Sherlock finally sets him down.

                “My exam? I passed, _of course_ I passed,” Sherlock says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

                “And the laser? What about the test results?”

                Sherlock grinned maniacally. “The laser ate itself!” he says, with far more glee than the statement warrants.

                John is stunned. “The laser _ate itself_? Sherlock, what the _hell_ is going on? How can you be happy about that, are you _high?_  You promised me that you wouldn’t do drugs again!”

                It is Sherlock’s turn to be stunned, now. “I am _clean_!” he said indignantly. He's about to get a full head of steam behind his anger at the accusation of being high, but stops himself - there's no time for that argument. Pursing his lips in concentration, he leads John to the nearest seat and sits down next to him. “We don't have time for me to tell you everything right now. Anderson sabotaged the laser. Smeared oil on the optics. The beam bounced back into the chassis and literally fried itself. When I headed back to the dorm Anderson let it slip that he knew about the meltdown even though he wasn’t there when it happened, so I knew it was he who smudged the optics. Then it hit me – well, almost quite literally, after I punched the fridge – _freeze the fuel!_ I think I can get at least an order of magnitude, because it’s going to be frozen. Maybe bromide. Will you come?”

                John’s face shifts from shock over the meltdown, to anger over Anderson’s involvement, to delight over Sherlock’s solution. “Of course!” he says as he stands. “What are we waiting for?” Sherlock stands and slips his hand in John’s, and they run back to the laser lab together.


	13. I'll stake my claim, I'll make my name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John savor the sweet taste of victory, but is it too good to be true?

               Twelve hours after the catastrophic meltdown of the laser, an insufferably smug Sherlock bounds up the steps of Jim Moriarty’s front porch and stabs at the doorbell. He waits impatiently, shifting from foot to foot as he listens to the faint sounds of the professor’s footsteps coming down the stairs from his bedroom.

                The front door is wrenched open, and a rumpled (but curiously not sleepy, given that it’s nearly midnight) Jim Moriarty stands before Sherlock in a hastily pulled-on tracksuit, the jacket unzipped and revealing his bare torso. His short brown hair is significantly mussed ( _sex hair_ , Sherlock grimaces inwardly, similar to envisioning one’s own parents having biblical relations), and his dilated pupils have rendered his dark brown eyes nearly black. _Coitus interruptus_. Sherlock feels a certain amount of satisfaction at having ruined the professor's evening.

                “How’s it going, Jim,” Sherlock drawls, pushing past the professor and walking into the foyer.

                Moriarty grabs Sherlock by the arm to stop him. “What do you want, Holmes?” he says, clearly agitated by his student’s unexpected visit.

                “World peace – but I don’t think this is the time to discuss it,” Sherlock replies flippantly.

                “Get out,” Moriarty growls, stepping directly between Sherlock and the staircase.

                Sherlock does not fail to notice that the professor is obviously trying to keep him from seeing something upstairs, and grins wickedly. “I have something that might interest you, Jim.”

                “I’m not interested in anything you have to say!”

                Sherlock hears another set of footsteps from upstairs and looks up to see none other than Irene Adler, her hair down and lipstick smudged, wearing nothing but one of Jim’s button-down shirts. “Dr. Moriarty…” she starts, and trails off when she sees Sherlock, her eyes narrowing. He raises an eyebrow, and glances back at his professor. _Gotcha._ Resigned, Moriarty steps back to the bottom of the staircase, and waits for Sherlock to get to the point.

                “I solved the power problem, Jim.”

                Moriarty’s expression shifts from barely-contained anger to keen interest. “Jim?” Irene says, trying to turn his attention back to her, but she is only an afterthought now. Sherlock can see the wheels spinning in the professor’s brain, and knows that whatever Irene was giving him upstairs cannot possibly compare to what Sherlock is offering him right now.

                “Go home,” Moriarty responds after a few beats, not even bothering to look at her, and zips up his jacket.

                Sherlock looks up at Irene’s furious expression as Moriarty slips on a pair of shoes and grabs his keys, already heading for the door. “Well, at least you don’t have to take a cab,” he says on his way out of the house, taking great pleasure in her wordless shout of frustration as she runs back up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

                Ten minutes later, Sherlock and Moriarty arrive at the laser lab. Sherlock is pleased to see that John has indeed roused Anderson, Donovan and Dimmock from sound sleep, judging by their unfocused, bleary-eyed expressions. Moving past Donovan to get to the rebuilt (and significantly smaller) laser assembly, he catches a whiff of men’s deodorant, and as he passes Anderson, he detects the same deodorant on him. _Gross,_ he thinks, but tucks the tidbit away for future reference.

                “Why the hell have you dragged us out here in the middle of the night, anyway?” Anderson sneers.

                “Don’t talk out loud, Anderson, you lower the I.Q. of the whole campus,” Sherlock retorts sharply. As John passes out goggles to the professor and the rest of the team, Sherlock moves to the whiteboard propped up on the desk. He perches with one hip on the edge, marker in hand, and faces his audience.

                “As you know, John and I were working on the cyanide system. Well, earlier today, it ate itself,” he begins, making notes on the board. “But these little setbacks are sometimes just what we need to take a giant step forward, right Anderson?” Sherlock looks pointedly at the older student, who averts his eyes.

                Sherlock turns back to the board, where he’d drawn a line graph; John, having handed out the goggles, stands next to him. “Needless to say, I was a little despondent about the meltdown,” he says as he indicates a low point on the graph. “But then, in the midst of my preparation for Hari Kari, it came to me. It is possible to synthesize excited bromide in an argon matrix.” Anderson opens his mouth to object, but Sherlock cuts him off. “Yes – it's an [excimer](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Excimer_laser), frozen in its excited state.”

                “That’s impossible,” Anderson protests.

                “It’s a chemical laser, but in _solid_ , not gaseous form,” Sherlock counters, noting that while the three older students seem skeptical, Moriarty is paying rapt attention. “Put simply, in deference to you, Anderson, it’s like lasing a stick of dynamite.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis. “As soon as we apply a field, we couple to a state that is radiatively coupled to the ground state.” Sherlock hops off the desk, grabs a pair of asbestos gloves and walks over to the much smaller worktable. “I figure we can extract ten to the twenty-first photons per cubic centimeter, which would give us one kilojoule per cubic centimeter at six hundred nanometers, or one megajoule per liter.”

                “That’s hotter than the sun!” Dimmock says in awe as Sherlock pulls on the gloves and opens the laser assembly.

                “It’s small,” Donovan says doubtfully.

                “It’s supposed to be small,” Moriarty mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.

                John picks up the pile of protective vests from the corner of the worktable and begins handing them out to the others as Sherlock opens a large metal cooler. Using a pair of large tongs, he pulls a frozen, cylindrical object out of the cooler and places it carefully inside the laser assembly. “Of course, we only have the one sample, and it’s going to destroy itself as it lases.” He closes the assembly housing. “But everything’s going to be fine, isn’t it, John?” Sherlock adds, sounding a bit giddy even to his own ears.

                “Yeah,” John agrees, pulling on his own vest.

                “This is a complete waste of time!” Anderson protests, and is immediately shushed by Donovan, Dimmock, and Moriarty himself.

                “Do me a favor, Anderson, and put the target in front of the cinderblocks, will you?” Sherlock says offhandedly.

                Looking sheepish, Anderson does as Sherlock instructs, while John wheels the protective Plexiglas shield into place. “Okay, come behind the shield,” John calls out. The three students and their professor follow his lead, donning their protective gear. Sherlock makes some final adjustments to the control panel behind the laser and joins everyone behind the shield, finally putting on his own protective vest and Wayfarers in place of goggles.

                “Ready when you are, Mr. Watson,” Sherlock says.

                "Okay," John replies, configuring the remote control. "Ready? Laser on!” he announces, pressing the button. An astonishingly bright beam, at least four inches in diameter, shoots out of the laser assembly. It burns right through the target and the cinderblocks like a hot knife through butter. After only fifteen seconds, it shuts off, the sample having burned itself out.

                “Whoa!” Dimmock says in awe.

                “Fantastic!” Sherlock shouts, pulling off his Wayfarers and gazing with unabashed joy at his creation.

                John examines the large hole the laser cut through the target and the cinderblocks behind it. “Look at this!” He rolls the target and cinderblocks away, revealing that the laser also burned a hole through the window behind them. John looks sheepishly at Moriarty. “Oh, sorry about the window, sir.”

                “And the trees across the quad!” Anderson adds in astonishment, peering out the window.

                But Moriarty could care less. While the three older students are staring in awe, he is looking at the laser assembly with undisguised greed, and there is a dangerous glint in his eye that Sherlock can’t quite place, but knows is vitally important. He doesn’t have time to think about it long, though, because at that moment John crosses the room and wraps him up in a hug.

                "It worked!" John says, embracing Sherlock tightly.

                "Of course it did," Sherlock replies with his trademark arrogance, but his tone is much warmer as he holds John close. "We built it together."

                John lets go of Sherlock to start cleaning up. The older teen faces Moriarty, who is oddly calm.

                “You did it,” Moriarty says. Sherlock holds his professor’s gaze but does not reply.

                “I did my part too!” Anderson says indignantly.

                Moriarty ignores Anderson, still looking intently at Sherlock. “You graduate – you get the job.”

                Anderson loses it. “What?! You can’t! That’s my job! I’ve done everything you ever _asked_ me to!” He runs to a nearby supply closet, while Moriarty, oblivious, walks around the lab, observing what the laser struck. “I teach your classes for you! I get your laundry!” Anderson continues, nearly hysterical, as he unlocks the closet door.

                “What is he doing?” John asks Sherlock, having returned to the older teen’s side. Sherlock, however, is only minimally paying attention to Anderson’s meltdown, his primary focus being Moriarty’s curious expression.

                Anderson emerges from the closet with a large mirror and brandishes it at Moriarty, who has his hands folded together, still lost in thought. “Look! I mounted the optics for the phase conjugate target tracking system, now look at this mirror. Look. LOOK!!” he shouts, to no avail. Moriarty finally turns to look at Anderson’s panicked face, and a peculiar smile crosses his face that has nothing to do with the large mirror being thrust at him. Without a word, he turns and quickly leaves the lab. “Wait… wait!” Anderson calls after him feebly.

                Sherlock takes note of Anderson’s breakdown and Moriarty’s reaction, but doesn’t allow it to dampen his mood. Tonight he has won – he passed his exams, finished the laser, and earned his degree, and if it weren’t for John – wonderful, loyal, dedicated John – none of this would have been possible. He’s not going to let anyone take this victory from him now.

                “Let’s celebrate!” John shouts triumphantly.

                “Absolutely,” Sherlock agrees, throwing his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders and leading him out of the lab, leaving a stunned Anderson, and an amazed Donovan and Dimmock, behind.

 

 

* * *

 

                Sherlock and John swing by the dorm to invite Mike and Molly to join them, and as they walk across campus they fill the pair in on what happened in the lab. They come across a bronze statue on the quad that was a victim of the laser's blast, a perfect hole burned through the statue’s head. Across the way, they see a tree that was also hit by the laser, and walk over for a closer look. Mike lets Molly climb up onto his shoulders so she can see the damage.

                “Ow, my glasses!” Mike protests as Molly tries to get better footing.

                “Okay, well try not to wobble,” she replies, as John steadies her on Mike’s shoulders. “There’s a complete hole!” she says with awe, peering through the hole in the tree trunk.

               Sherlock jumps up and grabs a tree branch next to her. “That’s impressive,” he says, grinning madly.

               Molly is still peering through the hole. “Look!” she says to Sherlock. He turns his head, and sees, off in the distance, a billboard advertisement for Purgatory, a burger joint off-campus, which now has a flaming hole right through the picture of their famous Limbo burger. Sherlock drops down, and John helps Molly off of Mike’s shoulders. They make their way off campus in the direction of the sign, and pull up short outside of the seedy dive named Purgatory. A crowd has gathered, gawking at the burning billboard.

               “Look at that!” John laughs.

               “Let’s get a burger,” Sherlock says. John glances at Sherlock with a grin; if Sherlock is hungry, that must be a good sign.

               Molly is not so sure. “What, in _there_?” she says skeptically.

               “Relax, it’ll be fine,” Sherlock says confidently, leading the group inside.

               The foursome grab a table and peruse the stained menus. Mike goes up to the bar and gets four pints of whatever’s on tap, passing two biker girls having a fight over a game of pool on his way back to their table.

               “This place is wild,” John says as Mike sits down next to Molly with the pints. Sherlock smirks and picks up a glass, taking a generous swig. John looks suspiciously at his own glass.

               “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to,” Sherlock says, putting his arm around John’s shoulders.

               “No, it’s not that – I’m underage!” he protests.

               “I don’t think anyone’s going to card you in here,” Sherlock says with a grin.

               John takes a tentative sip of his beer, and after that first sip goes down relatively easy, he takes another, larger one. “So,” he says to Sherlock. “You going to take me home to meet your parents?”

               “Absolutely not.”

               “Why not, are you ashamed of me?” John says indignantly.

               “Of course not,” Sherlock says, giving John’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “You’ve met Mycroft already – my parents are a thousand times worse. I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy.”

               John laughs and leans up to give Sherlock a kiss, but Sherlock isn’t looking at him – he’s looking over at the door. John follows his gaze and his eyes widen. “It’s…”

               “…Mycroft,” Sherlock finishes for him. Sure enough, Mycroft is in the burger joint, his bespoke three-piece suit and umbrella very out of place among the college students and local denizens of Pasadena. He glides through the crowd as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea, and sits down next to John, forcing everyone to shift over in the semicircular booth.

               “Hello brother dear, how _are_ you?” Sherlock says with exaggerated affection.

               “Congratulations on your impending graduation, little brother,” Mycroft replies smoothly. He props his umbrella against the edge of the table and folds his hands together on the cheap veneer of the tabletop. “I’ve been thinking about your laser solution.”

               “Oh really?” Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing just slightly.

               “I estimate that you managed to increase the power output to six megawatts?”

               “That’s what our calculations say, yes.”

               “And under what circumstances would such a laser be useful?”

               “The applications are limitless,” John replies, taking another sip of his beer.

               “Actually, they are not,” Mycroft counters. John sits his glass down with a frown. “With the fuel source you’ve used, the beam only lasts about fifteen seconds. That narrows the applications for such a device significantly.”

               “Let the engineers figure out a use for it, that’s not our concern,” John insists, trying to salvage the good mood at the table that he knows is long gone.

               Sherlock sits up, though he does not move his arm from John’s shoulders. “Get to the point, Mycroft.”

               “I believe someone already has a use for it. One for which it was specifically designed,” Mycroft says darkly.

               “You mean Dr. Moriarty had something in mind all along?” Molly asks.

               John looks at Sherlock, whose expression is positively thunderous. _Oh shit._

               “Look at the facts,” Mycroft says, leaning in for emphasis. “Very high powered, portable, limited firing power, _unlimited range_. All you need is a tracking system and a large spinning mirror and you could vaporize a human target from space.”

               “Moriarty,” Sherlock growls. “ _This_ is what you’ve been working on all along, isn’t it?” he demands, pointing an accusing finger at Mycroft.

               “I had my suspicions, but at the time I did not believe that Moriarty could be so brazen as to disguise a covert government program as a school project. It would appear that I… underestimated him.”

               Sherlock smirks, but John notes the tightness in the corners of his pale eyes, and sees no mirth in them. “Well that _is_ a first.”

               Mycroft stands up and collects his umbrella. “Shall we go back to the lab?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

               Sherlock and John race down the hallway to the laser lab, Molly and Mike close on their heels and Mycroft following sedately behind. The curly-haired teen fumbles with his key and finally unlocks the door to the lab to find his worst fears confirmed. “No,” he breathes. John squeezes past his friend and looks around. The entire laser assembly has been removed. Sherlock angrily shoves some tools off the worktable and clutches at his curls in frustration.

               “What happened?” Molly asks.

               “He took it – the laser, Moriarty took it,” John explained numbly. Less than an hour ago, he and Sherlock were riding high on the crest of a hard-won victory; now they were staring a far greater failure square in the face.

               Sherlock picks up a wrench and walks over to the supply closet as Mycroft strolls in to the lab. He unlocks the door and throws it open, and John flinches when he hears the horrendous clatter of the wrench having been flung at an empty metal shelf. “Anderson’s tracking system is gone!” he shouts. John stands by helplessly as Sherlock starts trashing the supply closet. “How could you build that mirror!” the older teen shouts as he throws files and spare parts in his fury.

               “He lied to us,” John says weakly as Sherlock stalks out.

               “It’s easy to lie to you, John; you see the good in everyone. I’m a cynic,” Sherlock says as he sags against the door frame. “How could I have missed this?”

               “I understand how you feel, brother,” Mycroft says, having watched Sherlock’s tantrum from the safety of the doorway. “But what we need to do now is find out what _he’s_ doing.”

               Sherlock’s mouth sets in a grim line. “Anderson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hyperlinked the excimer laser to an article on Wikipedia. Apparently, not _all_ of the science in the film is sketchy - just most of it ;)


	14. My Love, My Game, My Vocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John need to sabotage Moriarty's plans for the laser - but first they need to get information out of Anderson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter out! Work stress - ugh, it seems to be a constant in my life lately. Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

               After Professor Moriarty leaves the lab, followed not long after by Sherlock and John, Anderson trudges back to his room alone without even so much as a goodbye to Sally and Dimmock. In the space of an evening he’s gone from feeling victorious at finally outwitting the smart-ass nineteen-year-old genius, to feeling the crushing defeat of once again being shown up. With one impressive demonstration Sherlock has wrested the Darlington job and Moriarty’s favor away from him once again, and in spite of the fact that he is still going to graduate, he feels like an utter failure.

                Anderson lets himself into his dorm room and slams the door, collapsing on his bed. He’s exhausted, and what’s more, his whole mouth still hurts from having his braces adjusted a day ago. As if constantly being in the shadow of a couple of teenagers isn’t bad enough, he’s also the oldest person he knows who _still_ has braces. Lord knows why Sally shows any interest in him. His girlfriend – well, now ex-girlfriend – Missy finally dumped him after finding out that he was fooling around with Sally, not that he’s overly upset about it, but it is one more failure on top of the steaming pile already engulfing him as of late, and he figures it’s only a matter of time before Sally dumps him too. He knows that part of what made him attractive to his lab partner in the first place was that he was dating someone else; now that Missy is out of the picture, he’s no longer a challenge. Sighing heavily, he runs his tongue over the copious amount of metal in his mouth and winces. The last thought he has before sleep finally takes him is a fervent wish for this semester to end already.

 

* * *

 

 

                Sherlock, John, Mike, Molly and Mycroft return to Sherlock and John’s dorm room. The mood is somber, but John notes a steely determination in his best friend which gives him hope – it means Sherlock hasn’t given up yet. The pair end up sitting on Sherlock’s mess of a bed while Mike and Molly sit on John’s neatly made one, and Mycroft perches primly on John’s desk chair, his umbrella hanging off the back.

                “No more secrets, Mycroft. Tell us what you know,” Sherlock says without preamble.

                Mycroft elegantly crosses one leg over the other as if he has all the time in the world. “I can’t tell you everything, Sherlock,” he says with the air of explaining something to a child, “as most of what I’ve been working on is classified.”

                “Screw your classified work. If you’d been up front with me from the beginning, we might not be in this mess,” Sherlock growls. John lays a hand on Sherlock’s arm, in part to comfort and in part to warn, and feels his friend back down just slightly.

                Mycroft has the good grace to look chagrined, though the only evidence of this is a slight pinking of his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he continues. “Be that as it may, none of what we are about to discuss here can leave this room.” He fixes his gaze on each of them in turn, and John is proud that neither Mike nor Molly quail under his gaze. “As you know, Sherlock, I have been tracking down funds that have been misappropriated from a defense contract based at the Baskerville Air Force Base not far from here. The contract was a research project investigating more efficient types of fuel for jet aircraft, but someone has been very carefully funneling the funds to an unapproved project. I did not know who the culprit was until you gave me a name – David Adler. My team and I discovered that he’s been using those research funds for a new weapons system – the details of which were highly classified, even beyond my level of access.” Sherlock snorts at this, but Mycroft ignores him. “I put surveillance on Adler after our conversation that night, and received a report this evening that Professor James Moriarty paid him a visit.”

                “That must have been right after our demonstration,” John interjects.

                “Quite right, Mr. Watson. I won’t go into the details, but it was revealed in the course of their brief conversation that ‘the weapon’ was ready. It wasn’t difficult to put the pieces together after that.”

                “Which led you to campus where you no doubt heard reports of the laser test,” Sherlock drawls.

                “Correct. I tracked the path of the laser from the lab to the restaurant, where I found you. And here we are.”

                “So what’s the next step?” John asks.

                Mycroft’s eyes narrow as he stares off into the middle distance, thinking. “We know that Moriarty has taken the laser and the tracking system to Baskerville for further testing. What we don’t know is when that testing will take place. I can’t just barge in there, Adler’s too smart for that; he’ll find a way to make the laser disappear, and cover his tracks financially if I do. We need to find out the date of the field test, and it’s highly doubtful that Moriarty is stupid enough to simply put it in his calendar.”

                Sherlock sits up. “No, but in Anderson we have something better than a calendar. We have someone who’s practically been in Moriarty’s back pocket all year. The trick will be finding a way to get him to tell us what he knows, without him alerting Moriarty to our actions.”

                “Actually, Mike and I have an idea about that,” Molly says suddenly. John, Sherlock and Mycroft turn to look at her, and are surprised to see a rather devious little smile cross her face.

                “Well, Miss Hooper, you are full of surprises, aren’t you,” Mycroft says, sounding just a bit impressed.

                “Please, Mycroft. I don’t surround myself with idiots,” Sherlock chides. He turns his attention to Molly and Mike. “Tell us what you need.”

 

* * *

 

 

                The next night, the four students gather in Sherlock and John’s room with their supplies for Molly’s impressively devious plan before venturing out into the hall. Anderson is in his room next door, having returned from supper a half-hour before, and can be heard through the wall tapping away on his computer. Molly hands out protective masks with oxygen filters to the boys, and once they put them on, she gives John a small wrapped bundle of surgical tools. Sherlock helps Mike carry a set of [nitrous oxide](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nitrous_oxide) tanks and a long translucent hose that he pilfered from one of the medical labs, and they crouch in front of Anderson’s door.

                Mike sets up the tanks and connects the hose, carefully threading the end of it under Anderson’s door. He turns the valves, and soon they hear the hissing of the gas as it runs through the hose and into Anderson’s room. The quartet sit and wait for the gas to take effect.

                “You’ll have two minutes,” Mike says. Molly shakes her head – she can’t hear him clearly through his mask. Mike hold up two fingers while mouthing the words “two minutes”, and she nods. John looks around nervously, and his eyes widen as another student walks down the hall. The student stares at the group of them.

                “Hi,” the student says as he walks past. John waves, a bit stunned. He glances at Sherlock, who grins at him, and he relaxes fractionally, grinning back.

                A muffled _thud_ emanates from Anderson’s room, and Mike shuts off the gas. Sherlock takes out his lock pick set ( _where did he get lock picks?_ John wonders), and unlocks Anderson’s door in short order. He opens the door slowly and ushers the rest of them inside. Anderson is at his computer, slumped over with his forehead on his keyboard. Mike and Molly carefully pull him upright in his chair and tilt his head back. Mike holds him steady while Molly puts on a doctor’s headlamp. Sherlock hangs back while John unrolls the bundle of tools.

                “Okay, open his mouth,” Molly says to Mike, who does as she asks. “Now [bulldogs](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulldogs_forceps),” Molly tells John, and he hands her the tool. “Transceiver,” she says to Sherlock, who hands her a tiny electronic chip, which she places in between the tips of the bulldogs. “And tweezers,” she says again to John, who hands them to her. Bending down over Anderson’s open mouth, she gets to work. “It was the braces that gave me the idea,” she explains while she fastens the transceiver to the metal band around one of Anderson’s molars. “They’re the perfect antenna and his whole head acts as a speaker.”

                “’Bout time someone put it to good use,” Mike mutters. John shoots a glance at Sherlock, who he can tell is suppressing a laugh, even in spite of the mask obscuring his mouth. Molly completes the procedure and they collect their tools quickly, vacating the room as quietly as possible.

                Back in Sherlock and John’s room, the quartet gather around the transmitter, to which John has attached a microphone. He hands it to Sherlock, who puts his hands up in protest. “No John, it should be you.”

                “But you’re the one who knows what to say!” John protests.

                Sherlock hands him a sheet of paper with a list of talking points in his familiar untidy scrawl. John scans it, frowning. “That transmitter is designed to alter the speaker’s voice to sound deeper. Given that my voice is already low, if I use it, he may not be able to discern what I am saying,” Sherlock explains, settling back in his chair.

                John chuckles and looks up. “Can’t be normal in any respect, can you?” he teases.

                Sherlock rolls his pale eyes. “Pfft, normal. Normal is boring.”

                John smiles fondly at Sherlock, then looks at Mike and Molly who are waiting expectantly. “Alright then, here we go,” he says as he turns on the transmitter.

 

* * *

 

 

**“Anderson? Anderson. Wake up, Anderson.”**

                A deep, booming voice echoes in Anderson’s brain, rousing him from slumber. He groans and, his equilibrium being a bit off, pitches forward in his chair, his forehead connecting painfully with his keyboard.

                “Ow!” Anderson exclaims, sitting up and rubbing his head

                **“Anderson!”** the voice booms again.

                Anderson stills. _What the hell…?_ “What?” he yells to the emptiness of his room.

**“I’m talking to you, Anderson,”** the disembodied voice says ominously.

                Anderson looks around suspiciously and cups his ears. “What is this?”

**“I _said_ , I’m talking to _you_.”**

                Anderson realizes he’s having a conversation with something he can’t see – or perhaps, a voice inside his head. Neither option speaks well of his sanity. “No,” he breathes.

**“Yeah,”** the voice growls menacingly.

                “Well, I’m not as…” Anderson becomes tongue-tied in his bewilderment. “I’m not asleep.” He gropes around his keyboard, trying to find a speaker or something that could be transmitting the disembodied voice, but comes up with nothing. “I must be overworked.”

**“You’re not overworked, Anderson.”**

                “Well I’m not insane!” Anderson retorts indignantly, then pauses to consider. “Or am I?”

**“That remains to be seen, but we _are_ having a conversation.”**

                Anderson stands up and looks around. _There must be a transceiver in here somewhere,_ he thinks, taking in his surroundings. He reaches up to the ceiling light and attempts to talk into it. “Okay, who is this?” he says skeptically.

**“This is Jesus, Anderson, and you’ve been a very naughty boy,”** the voice intones gravely.

                Anderson whirls around and directs his next words at his computer. “All right. _Who is this_?” he demands, irritated. Whatever is going on, it stopped being funny a while ago.

**“Cut the crap, you've built a weapon,”** the voice snaps angrily.

                Anderson is taken aback. _A weapon? What the hell…?_ “What?” he asks, bewildered.

**“What do you think a secret phase conjugate tracking system is for? A big mirror makes a big beam,”** the voice replies, dripping with condescension.

                Anderson sits down on his bed, crestfallen. How could he have missed this? How could he not have realized that the tracking system, paired with a powerful laser, could be used as a weapon? “I guess it could be,” he says, more to himself than the disembodied voice.

**“Where’s the laser now?”** the voice demands.

                Anderson clears his throat nervously. “I – I overheard Jim mention so- something about a test on the 17th, but I don’t know where. It’s classified.” He waits, but there is no response. “What??” he asks impatiently.

**“Oh! Nothing!”** the voice responds quickly. **”I want you to think about what you’ve done, Anderson,”** the voice says deliberately, **“and from now on, stop _playing_ with yourself!”**

                Anderson’s eyes widen in shock and wonder as he stares upward. “It _is_ God,” he breathes.

 

* * *

 

 

                John turns off the transmitter and looks around at his friends. His eyes meet with Sherlock’s, and while the older boy isn’t openly smiling, John can see the crinkles around his eyes indicating that he is pleased. “Now what?” John asks.

                The closet door opens behind the students, and Mycroft steps out. “Phase two. Fortunately we already knew _where_ the test will be. Now that we know _when_ , we can coordinate our next move.” He turns and walks back into the closet, then stops. “If you would follow me, please,” he throws over his shoulder as an afterthought.

                Mike and Molly look between Mycroft, Sherlock, and John, bewildered. John grins at them. “You’ll like this bit,” he says, getting up to follow Mycroft.

                It takes some maneuvering, but eventually all five of them end up in Mycroft’s secret office in the steam tunnels. John notices that there is some additional equipment – several extra telephones and modems, a printer, and a laminating machine. Mycroft settles down in front of his computer and connects one of the telephones to the modem, dialing an unspecified number. In short order he’s managed to log into Baskerville’s base network and begins accessing personnel files. “The first order of business,” Mycroft murmurs while typing, “is to ensure that Sherlock and John can get on base. For that you need identification, and you need to be on the approved visitors list. We should be able to take care of that in a matter of hours. Sherlock, I am sure you have been working out your strategy to sabotage Moriarty’s demonstration of the laser?"

                “Oh yes,” Sherlock says, and John catches a mischievous glint in his best friend’s eyes. “I know _exactly_ what we’re going to do.”


	15. Welcome to your life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet interlude. While concocting a plan to get even with Professor Moriarty, as well as expose his illegal activities, Sherlock graduates from Pacific Tech. As per usual, Mycroft sticks his nose in where it doesn't belong.
> 
> Also: let's talk about sex, baby. But just talking. No doing. Yet. (Warnings and rating will be appropriately adjusted if / when necessary.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching songs for chapter titles - this one is the first line from Tears for Fears' "Everybody Wants to Rule the World". Really sorry for the wait! I hope to have this fic completed by the end of the month; the next chapter is written but probably will not be posted until the end of the week.
> 
> As usual, unbeta'ed, all mistakes are mine.

          Sherlock has a plan – a devious, ingenious, and oh-so-clever plan – and over the next couple of weeks, amidst finals and Sherlock’s graduation, the four students and Mycroft work out the details. Now that Mycroft has more concrete evidence linking Professor Moriarty to the misappropriated federal funds he’s been investigating, he can call in more resources. His first call is to his assistant, Anthea, who has been working undercover at Darlington Labs for several months, to have her infiltrate the professor’s personal communications. He then appoints a team of agents to tail Moriarty at all times, based on the information Anthea collects. The next order of business is to obtain access to Baskerville for Sherlock and John, which will require Mycroft to contact the base security officer. It took quite a bit of explaining to convince his superiors that Sherlock and John, as the true architects of the laser, were the only ones who could perform the necessary work on it, and Mycroft suspects that he will fight a similar battle with Major Barrymore.

          Mycroft knows what Sherlock is planning to do, and in spite of Sherlock’s continued assurances that everything will work out perfectly, he has his reservations. There is no good time to approach his little brother, though, because Sherlock is busy with finishing his exams and taking part in the mandatory pre-graduation events. Four days after their last meeting, Sherlock sits with the rest of his graduating class on the quad outside the campus' main auditorium, while Mycroft and his parents look on. John, Molly, and Mike sit in the row in front of the Holmes family, and Mycroft rolls his eyes when the trio cheer loudly as Sherlock crosses the stage to collect his diploma – or rather, a piece of paper representing the document, which will be mailed to the Holmes residence later that summer.

          It is later that evening, at the post-graduation reception hosted by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes at their estate, that he finally corners Sherlock and John on the sundeck surrounding the pool. The two boys are sitting side-by-side, their trousers rolled up to their knees and their legs dangling over the edge of the pool. Two pairs of shoes and socks are strewn carelessly behind them. Sherlock has his arm around John’s shoulders, and John’s head rests against Sherlock’s chest.

          “John, could you excuse us please? Sherlock and I have some business to discuss,” Mycroft says without preamble. The boys look up, but Sherlock doesn’t drop his arm – if anything, Mycroft notices that his younger brother has fractionally tightened his embrace.

          “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of John,” Sherlock replies. John glances up at his friend as Mycroft registers the note of warning in his brother's voice. 

          Mycroft sighs, perching carefully on the edge of one of the chaise lounges. “Very well. Sherlock, I think you need to reconsider your plan.”

          “It’s an excellent plan, Mycroft. You’ll get the proof you need, and I’ll get the satisfaction I need. There’s no need to change it.”

          “I could get the proof I need without your theatrics. You’ll be breaking the law. Moriarty could press charges.”

          “From where, prison? Come on, _dear brother_ ," Sherlock sneers. "Moriarty’s crimes far overshadow anything I’m going to do to him.”

          Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “It is a lot of work and needless expense for what amounts to a childish prank. How is this better than just letting the test proceed as planned?”

          Sherlock straightens, dropping his arm from John's shoulders so that he can fully face his brother. He pulls one leg out of the water and folds it, but leaves the other in the pool. “Surely you aren’t that slow, Mycroft. There are other people outside of Baskerville who need to see what Moriarty’s been up to. If the test proceeds as planned, within the boundaries of the base, those people won’t be able to see what the laser can do.”

          “And who else are you inviting to this little party?” Mycroft inquires.  _Dear Lord, don't let him turn this into a three-ring circus._

          “Professor Lestrade and the school's board of directors. Oh, and Congressman Dougan. Thought he might take a passing interest since Pacific Tech is in his congressional district. Don't worry, you can make them all sign NDAs," Sherlock says dismissively. "But even if Moriarty weasels his way out of any federal charges, I intend to make sure he never teaches again. No university will touch him with a ten-foot pole when I’m done with him.”

          Mycroft is surprised at the coldness of Sherlock’s words, and it seems that John is too, as the blond turns to look at his friend. “Sherlock…?” John asks, apparently not aware of this part of the plan.

          Sherlock looks at John, and Mycroft could swear that it’s the first time he’s seen the emotion of love on Sherlock’s face. “I have to do this, John. For you, and for any other student who has been or could be manipulated by that bastard. I can’t hurt him physically, but I can take away the things he holds most dear.”

          “If you get caught while you’re implementing your little scheme, Sherlock, you could jeopardize your primary role in this endeavor. It’ll be hard to get you into Baskerville if you’re in jail. And if you take John with you, then you’re contributing to the delinquency of a minor,” Mycroft warns.

          Sherlock, however, will not be swayed. “It’ll be fine,” the older teen bites out. “And I have to have John, as well as Mike and Molly, with me. We’re a team.”

          John smiles at Sherlock, then smirks at Mycroft with eyebrows raised, as if to say, _His mind’s made up – what’re you going to do about it?_

          Mycroft is every bit as smart as Sherlock, if not smarter, but unlike his brother, he knows when a battle is lost. “Fine, we’ll do it your way. I’ll contact Major Barrymore Monday morning and make the necessary arrangements. Oh, and by the way, Mother is looking for you,” Mycroft says, standing and brushing the creases out of his bespoke suit.

          Sherlock resumes his original position, both legs in the pool, and dismisses Mycroft with a lazy handwave before enveloping John’s shoulders again. “If she wants to see me that badly, she can come out here.”

          “Very well.” Mycroft spares a moment to look at his younger brother and his friend – _boyfriend? Lover? Just how far has this relationship progressed?_ he wonders. Sighing again, he turns to walk back into the house.

          “Oh and Mycroft? None of your business,” Sherlock calls out behind him. Mycroft shakes his head as he walks away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

          “What did you mean, ‘none of your business’?” John asks Sherlock when they are alone again.

          “Mycroft is curious about the nature of our relationship. He suspects that we’re sleeping together,” Sherlock says.

          “We _do_ sleep together,” John points out.

          “Yes we do, but we don’t _sleep_ together,” Sherlock clarifies. He waits for a moment as the penny drops for John.

          “…Oh.”

          “Exactly.”

          They sit in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the closeness, the gentle lap of the water against their shins, the quiet of a late spring evening. The Holmes residence - _mansion, more like,_ John thinks - is up in the hills outside Altadena, far away from the light pollution of Pasadena below, and above them is an endless expanse of stars. John gazes heavenward, working up the nerve to ask Sherlock something important.

          As usual, Sherlock beats him to the punch. “I can hear you thinking, John. Whatever you have to say, you can say it.”

          “Oh – uh, well – I mean – you said we don’t _sleep_ together,” John stammers. “But – well, I guess I never asked because I wasn’t sure if it was your thing – um, do you _want_ to? Sleep together, I mean.”

          Sherlock shifts so that he’s facing John, the tips of their noses just inches from each other. He brings his free hand up and strokes John’s cheek reverently. “I do, very much. But not until _you_ are absolutely sure that you're ready. And if you're never ready, that's okay too. I like what we have.”

          John leans into Sherlock’s touch, his eyes fluttering shut briefly before opening and gazing into Sherlock’s pale ones, the nighttime rendering his irises nearly translucent and practically nonexistent. He sees tiny pinpoints of light scattered across Sherlock’s dilated pupils, and realizes after a moment that it’s the firmament reflected in his best friend’s eyes. Sherlock appears to be waiting for some sort of acknowledgement, his eyebrows quirking questioningly. John clears his throat. “I – uh, well, I’ve never done – _that_ – before. I mean, I’m still fifteen. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I just, well, I just don’t know how. They don’t exactly tell you about the mechanics of _this" -_  he gestures between himself and Sherlock - "in sex ed,” he laughs ruefully.

          Sherlock smiles softly, before closing the short distance between their mouths and giving John a soft, almost chaste, kiss. “I know,” he whispers against John’s lips, before pulling back with a slightly embarrassed grin. “In the interest of full disclosure, I haven’t done it either. But, if and when you’re ready and not a moment before, I’d like to try.” He chuckles, and John smiles back at him. “I mean, _honestly_. Two geniuses like us ought to be able to figure it out, don’t you think?”

          John laughs, the sound of it ringing out over the pool and the hills beyond. Sherlock laughs too, a rich dark laughter that is the perfect counterpoint to John’s lighter, more melodic laughter. The mirth fades away, leaving smiles of contentment in its wake. John wonders what he did to deserve a friend – a partner – as wonderful as Sherlock.

          What he doesn’t know, as Sherlock’s lips find his own, is that Sherlock is thinking the same thing about John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at least when I was in middle school and high school, there was usually a unit (lasting about a week) of our physical education classes devoted to what was euphemistically called "Family Life and Health" or, more to the point, sex education - sex ed for short. And though my memory of those years is getting a touch hazy, I'm fairly confident that they _never_ went over any kind of sex other than the reproductive heterosexual kind, because that's the only reason you're supposed to have sex, right? *headdesk*
> 
> Also: NDAs = non-disclosure agreements.


	16. There's no turning back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John, Molly, and Mike put Sherlock's fiendishly clever plan into action, while Mycroft works behind the scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, unbeta'ed, all mistakes are mine. I hope to get the next chapter written this week. I am nowhere near making my NaNoWriMo numbers, thanks to work, but I still want to finish this fic by December. Thanks again to everyone who reads/leaves kudos & comments/bookmarks/subscribes to this fic, I love you all!

                John, Mike, and Molly have all signed up for summer sessions, and have been able to keep their current dorm rooms. Sherlock has yet to move any of his stuff out, a fact that pleases John immensely, even as he knows that they are both postponing the inevitable. He shoves that thought out of his mind for now – they have more pressing issues to worry about, namely the logistics of putting Sherlock’s plan into motion.

                They meet in Sherlock and John’s room two days after graduation. Mycroft has informed them that Moriarty will be staying on base for the next two days while the tests are conducted; the first day will consist mostly of briefings, while the second day will be the actual field test of the laser. John notes with amusement that Sherlock’s excitement over the plan is manifesting itself in a truly epic level of fidgeting and restlessness from the older teen; if he didn’t know better, he’d swear that Sherlock had been indulging in illegal substances again. Sherlock is clean, though, and hasn’t used anything more than Tylenol since the “Smart People on Ice” party months before. John likes to think it’s out of deference to him, and his family’s history with substance abuse, but he doesn’t ask, and Sherlock doesn’t talk about it.

                A knock at the door of their room stills Sherlock’s frantic pacing, and he makes it to the door before John does. He gestures for Molly and Mike to enter, and they sit on John’s bed out of long habit. John sits on Sherlock’s bed, and waits for Sherlock to join him, but Mr. Fidgety can’t sit still long enough. He’s pacing the room, clad in nothing but an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, his dressing gown falling off his shoulders and billowing out behind him as he mutters to himself under his breath.

                “Sherlock,” John says in the manner of a parent trying to get the attention of a distracted child.

                Sherlock whips his head around. “Right, then, are we all clear on the plan?” he asks.

                John sighs wearily, and glances at Molly and Mike, who have known Sherlock long enough to expect this behavior from him, and are watching the proceedings with amusement. “No, Sherlock, you’ve been carrying on a conversation with yourself for the past half-hour, so you’re the only one clear on the plan. How about filling the rest of us in?”

                Sherlock stops. He stares blankly at John, and the younger boy knows that Sherlock isn’t looking at him at all, but rather flicking through his mental record of the last half-hour to verify that yes, John is correct. With a shake of his head he comes back to himself, and turns so he’s facing Molly and Mike as well as John. “Alright. Moriarty leaves early tomorrow morning to go to Baskerville, and he is not scheduled to return until the following night. If it appears that he will try to return to his home, Mycroft’s agent has strict instructions to keep the good professor sufficiently distracted.” He makes a face, and John wonders briefly what sort of distraction Mycroft would have ordered his agent to use, then realizes he’d rather not know. The look on Sherlock’s face says that he had also reached the same conclusion. Sherlock clears his throat and continues. “We will arrive at Moriarty’s house later that evening, and unload the cargo when we are less likely to be spotted.”

                “What cargo?” Mike asks.

                Sherlock smirks. “Can’t tell you that,” he says. “Not yet at least. But tomorrow, after your classes, we’ll take the van I’ve – erm – appropriated – and pick up the cargo.”

 

                “And I suppose we’ll be utilizing your excellent lock picking skills to get into Moriarty’s house?” Molly says with a grin.

                Sherlock grins back. “Well of course, I have to stay in practice,” he replies. “So – any questions?”

 

* * *

  

                 John can barely concentrate in his classes the next day. Fortunately, as it is a four-week summer session, he only has two classes to worry about, and by four o’ clock he is done with both. He heads back to his dorm on autopilot, knowing that Sherlock is waiting impatiently. He barely gets the door to his room open before he is blinded by a set of blue coveralls thrown at his face, landing on his head like a strange wig.

                “Ah, excellent timing, John. Put those on and meet us back here. We need to go,” Sherlock says, all business.

                “Hello to you too,” John grumbles, snatching the coveralls off of his head and dropping his backpack on his desk chair. Now that his sight is restored, he sees that Sherlock, Molly, and Mike are all in the room, and all wearing the same blue coveralls that had been thrown at him. With a long-suffering sigh John turns on his heel and walks out, down the hall to the bathroom so he can change. He returns to their room a few minutes later, dropping his clothes on his bed. Sherlock is stuffing his lock picking tools in his pocket, and picks up the keys to the plumber’s van he “borrowed” (with an assist from Mycroft). He hands John another item, wrapped in a hand towel. John starts to put it in his pocket.

                “Careful!” Sherlock says sharply. “It’s delicate, and absolutely essential for the mission.”

                “So why give it to me?” John says, settling for cradling the unknown item in his hands instead.

                Sherlock looks at John with an expression somewhere between incredulous and exasperated. “Who else would I trust with something I wanted to keep safe?” he asks, as if this is something John should have known.

                John blushes, and looks at Molly and Mike, who are grinning at him. “Should we expect wedding invitations soon?” Mike whispers to John.

                “Oh, piss off,” John grumbles, though the words are laced with amusement.

                “If it makes any difference, you’d look stunning in white,” Molly says under her breath, picking up the ball and running with it.

 

                “I don’t think so. If they ever do allow same-sex marriage in this state I’ll wear a suit, thank you very much. And not a white one,” John says firmly before he realizes that he’s spoken aloud instead of whispering. Blushing furiously, he looks up at Sherlock, worrying that he might have said too much – after all this time, they still haven't really talked about the long term potential of this thing between them – but his fears are momentarily eased when he sees Sherlock smirking at him. He lets out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. “Alright, let’s get going,” he says, leading the group out.

 

* * *

 

                Half an hour later Sherlock is backing the van up to the loading dock of a warehouse in an industrial park. “Wait here,” he says, hopping out of the van. John fidgets with the mysterious item in the hand towel, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the back doors of the van open. He whips around in his seat to see Sherlock poking his head into the cargo area, grinning madly. “C’mon,” the lanky teen says. “These boxes won’t load themselves.”

                John, Molly and Mike get out of the van and scramble onto the loading dock. John walks over to the open cargo bay and examines the boxes inside. “Popcorn? Sherlock, are you sure about this?”

                Sherlock snorts. “Of _course_ I’m sure. I did the calculations myself, remember?”

                John rolls his eyes. “And of course you’re never wrong. This is a LOT of popcorn,” he says, gesturing at the dozens of cases of popcorn around them.

                “Hey, are you two done bickering or what?” Mike calls out as he and Molly load two more boxes into the van. “We could use some help here.”

                John shakes his head; he knows better than to think that he’ll win this argument. He picks up the nearest box and hands it to Sherlock, who hands it to Molly, who hands it to Mike, who places it in the back of the van. In no time at all they've got a good assembly line going, and thanks to Mike’s exceptional eye for spatial relations, the boxes are packed in the van with maximum efficiency and use of space. Finally the last box of popcorn is loaded, and Sherlock disappears into the warehouse without a word. He returns a few moments later with the largest roll of aluminum foil John has ever seen, and wedges it in the back of the van, slamming the doors shut. “Let’s go,” he says. Everyone clambers back into the van, which sits a bit lower than it did on their ride over, and Sherlock pulls out, heading now to Professor Moriarty’s house under the growing cover of darkness.

                The sun has completely set by the time the group reaches Professor Moriarty’s house, parking on the street. Sherlock gets out, silently motioning for the others to stay in the van, and surveys the property for any unexpected visitors or guests, and once he is satisfied that the house is empty, he motions for the others to join him.  Sherlock kneels in front of the front door and takes out his lock picking kit. In no time at all he has the door unlocked, and he opens it with a flourish. John, Molly and Mike have already started unloading the truck and begin the tedious process of bringing the boxes inside. “Just here, in the foyer,” Sherlock directs them, before heading outside. He takes a ladder off of the top of the van and carries it around to the back of the house, extending it up to a large stained-glass window on the second floor. Scaling the ladder, he reaches the window ledge and carefully removes the mirrored cube in its towel from his pocket. He removes the towel, dropping it unceremoniously on the ground, and attaches the cube to the window ledge by one of its corners, so that it looks like a diamond sitting on the ledge. Satisfied with his work, he climbs down and collapses the ladder, putting it back on top of the van before helping the others with the tedious process of unloading the boxes. It takes well over an hour, but finally all the boxes are in the foyer or on the front porch, waiting to be emptied. Sherlock stands back with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

                “Alright genius, what do we do now?” John asks, trying to sound irritated but failing to keep a straight face.

                “Now we need to unload the boxes so we can break them down and make a larger container,” Sherlock replies. “Duct tape, where are the boxes of duct tape?”

                “There were boxes of duct tape?” Mike asks, puzzled.

                Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of _course_ there were! How are we supposed to make a container for the popcorn without duct tape?”

                Now it's John's turn to roll his eyes. "It would've been helpful if you had filled us in on that part of the plan beforehand," he says pointedly.

                Sherlock never misses a beat. "Well, now you know. John – you, Molly, and Mike start unpacking the popcorn boxes while I find the duct tape. Flatten the boxes as you go.” He registers John’s nod of acknowledgement and walks out onto the front porch, fishing a penlight out of his pocket to make the hunt for the duct tape easier.

                “Ah!” he says triumphantly after a few minutes, pulling the duct tape boxes out from under a stack of popcorn boxes. He lugs them back inside and begins to fashion the largest cardboard bowl any of them had ever seen, using far more duct tape than maybe was strictly necessary, before lining the whole contraption with aluminum foil and taping it down securely. The four of them position the large container in the center of the two-story foyer, in full view of the stained-glass window on the second floor. “Now comes the fun part,” Sherlock says, grinning.

                “As if all of this hasn't been _so_ much fun already,” John intones sarcastically. “Alright, Mr. Dramatic, what’s next?”

 

                Sherlock rubs his hands together with glee. “Think Jiffy-Pop, but bigger. _Much_ bigger.”

 

* * *

 

                It is well past midnight by the time the four of them return to campus. Sherlock and John part company with Molly and Mike, who look exhausted as they drag themselves to their respective rooms. Still dressed in their coveralls, Sherlock and John descend into the steam tunnels to Mycroft’s subterranean office, where the government employee is busy tapping away at his computer. Three different printers are chattering away, and John notices a flatbed paper cutter and a laminating machine on Mycroft’s desk.

                “All set, dear brother?” Mycroft drawls, not once looking up from his computer.

                “Everything is in place, and no one spotted us,” Sherlock replies peevishly. John rolls his eyes. _Far be it for them to ever get along_ , he thinks.

                Mycroft stands, and collects the printouts from the various printers. Wielding the paper cutter like a pro, he slices and dices the pages until he has ID-badge size snippets, and in short order he produces two laminated photo identification badges to Sherlock and John. “Well, how do they look?”

                “Terrible. Mine looks like him and his looks like me,” Sherlock says with mock incredulity.

                John blows out an exasperated breath. “Oh here, you overgrown child,” he growls, exchanging the badge in his hand for the one in Sherlock’s. Examining his closely, he can find no fault with Mycroft’s handiwork, aside from the fact that he had to use their student ID photos.  “I look like a kid,” John mutters. “No one will believe that I’m a laser technician.”

                “Nonsense,” Sherlock admonishes. “Just act like you belong there and no one will question you. Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment.”

                “If you say so. At least you’re not smiling in yours. I look like I've just won a prize at Disneyland.”

                “Relax, you’ll be fine.”

                “And what if these don’t fool anybody?”

                “They shoot us.”


	17. Even while you sleep, we will find you...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, in his nervousness, begins to mutter under his breath. “This isn't going to work. We’ll be caught in five minutes. ‘Oh, hi, we just thought we’d come and have a wander 'round your top secret weapons base.’ ‘Really? Great! Come on in, we've got a fresh pot of coffee.’ That’s if we don’t get shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAACK I am so sorry for the delay on this! Christmas and Sherlock S3 and work have been conspiring against me, and I've finally been able to take advantage of a holiday and a snow day to get this chapter posted! I'm thinking there's only one more plot-driven chapter left, and then a possibly smutty epilogue for our boys. Thanks again for reading/kudoing/commenting/bookmarking/subscribing!
> 
> Unbeta'ed as usual.

                A few hours later, John and Sherlock are driving to Baskerville Air Force Base in Anderson’s Citroen DS. It is still two hours before dawn, and time is of the essence – the test flight will be in less than four hours. John adjusts his fake mustache; the adhesive is irritating his upper lip. Sherlock is focused on the road ahead, saying nothing, his lips pursed together in concentration. The tension and adrenaline levels are at an all-time high for the pair. Faking their way onto a military base is far more dangerous than disassembling Anderson’s car or setting up a pool party in a lecture hall.

                They pull up to the outer gate, where John notices three guards with automatic rifles. John does his best not to look nervous, but his traitorous heart hammers in his chest. Sherlock shoots him a quick smile of reassurance before allowing his usual mask of boredom to settle over his face. The guard at the gate taps on the window. “IDs?” he asks.

                Sherlock rolls down the window and hands the guard his and John’s identification badges. The guard examines them as several tense seconds pass. “Show these to the guard at the next gate,” he says, handing them back to Sherlock.

                Sherlock nods and accepts the badges, pocketing them as he slowly drives up to the next gate. There are more guards with automatic rifles at the ready. John clears his throat uneasily. The guard steps up to Sherlock’s side of the car. “Need to see your IDs, gentlemen,” he says, and Sherlock obediently hands them over.

                The guard at this gate spends significantly more time examining the badges than the guard at the first gate, and John, in his nervousness, begins to mutter under his breath. “This isn’t going to work. We’ll be caught in five minutes. ‘Oh, hi, we just thought we’d come and have a wander 'round your top secret weapons base.’ ‘Really? Great! Come on in, we’ve got a fresh pot of coffee.’ That’s if we don’t get shot.”

                “Relax. Mycroft took care of everything. It’ll be fine,” Sherlock whispers, giving John’s clenching and unclenching fist a quick squeeze.

                After what feels like an hour, but in reality is only a minute or two, the guard comes back to the car. “You’re not on the list,” he says to Sherlock.

                Sherlock smirks. "We’re here on a special assignment. It’s classified.”

                “Yeah,” John adds weakly. The phone rings in the guard shack, and one of the other soldiers picks it up, speaking quietly into the handset, then hangs up.

                “Aren’t you guys a little young to be technicians?” the guard by Sherlock’s window asks.

                “Well, lasers are a young science,” Sherlock replies glibly, then realizes what he’s just said. He and John exchange a panicked glance. “Okay, there, fine, you made me say it. Now we’re both in trouble,” Sherlock adds, playing for time and trying desperately to cover his slip of the tongue.

                “I’ll just call the duty officer,” the guard says, turning away.

                John’s panic is at astronomical levels as Sherlock plays his hole card. “Staff sergeant!” he calls out, desperate to get the soldier's attention. The guard turns around, annoyed. “We’re on a special assignment. We’re not going to be on any list. We’re just contractors. Our government supervisor is Mycroft Holmes.” Sherlock produces a business card that the guard reluctantly accepts. “Just call him, and he’ll give you the authorization to let us on base.” The guard doesn’t move. “Look, we’re four hours late. Give us a break. Hey – someday you might be in the private sector too, right?”

                “Yeah,” John adds, feeling like he should back Sherlock up somehow.

                The guard narrows his eyes at Sherlock. “One moment,” he says, ducking into the guard shack and picking up the phone.

                Sherlock blows out a breath of frustration. “Shit,” he mutters.

                “Probably not calling Mycroft, then?” John says mirthlessly.

                “Probably not,” Sherlock agrees.

                The guard hangs up the phone, but instead of directing the other soldiers to haul them out of the car and arrest them, he wordlessly waves them through the gate. Sherlock shifts the car into gear and they drive off, both exhaling a breath and laughing giddily.

                “Mycroft’s name literally opens doors!” John says with astonishment.

                “Well, he practically _is_ the US Government, after all,” Sherlock says with a grin.

                They drive toward the air field, finding a secluded place to park the car. John retrieves their briefcases as Sherlock quickly refers to his notes from Mycroft and silently points out the correct aircraft to John. Using the shadows as cover, they sneak across the tarmac until they can hide no longer, then straighten up and stride toward the aircraft as if they belong there. They manage to avoid the attention of several air crew and board the aircraft, only to pull up short when they spot two technicians servicing the laser – _their_ laser. John clenches his hand tighter around the handle of his briefcase, his jaw set with barely concealed rage at the injustice of their situation. Sherlock places a hand on John’s arm – partly for comfort, and partly as a warning – before moving forward. Sherlock stands next to a rack of equipment while John, following his friend’s lead, kneels next to the laser as if examining it.

                “All systems go. We’re done here,” one of the technicians says. The other nods and they both make their way to the exit, but the first technician pauses, glancing first at John and then at Sherlock, frowning.

                “WHAT?” Sherlock says in his most intimidating and haughty voice.

                The technician, taken aback by Sherlock’s brusqueness, shrugs diffidently and quickly exits the plane. John waits a beat, then jumps up and takes his place next to Sherlock. They open their briefcases on top of the half-height equipment racks and immediately start assembling their rudimentary wireless communications device. Sherlock attaches a wireless antenna to the relay in his briefcase, and plugs up two additional cables. John takes a cable from his briefcase and connects it to a similar cable from Sherlock’s briefcase, then hands Sherlock a small cordless screwdriver. He takes a ribbon cable out of his own case and connects it to a port on the PCB in Sherlock’s briefcase, leaving the end dangle while he waits for Sherlock to open the cover on the equipment rack. Once Sherlock has the cover off, he takes the free end of the ribbon cable and plugs it into a port on the onboard computer's PCB inside the equipment rack.

                “This little polynomial should keep the computer so busy it doesn’t even know we’re here,” Sherlock murmurs, looking over at the activity lights on the rack to confirm his hypothesis.

                “Okay, I’m dialing Mycroft now,” John says as he keys in the number on the modem to dial Mycroft’s computer.

                “Good,” Sherlock says, picking up the phone handset and dialing a second number to call Mycroft’s landline. John kneels down to remove the PROM module containing the pre-programmed coordinates for the test flight out of the equipment rack and hands it to Sherlock, who places the module in a data port in John’s briefcase.

                “Abbott to Costello,” Sherlock drawls into the phone.

                “This is Costello, go ahead Abbott,” Molly answers.

                “We’ve got the goods.”

                “Okay, we’ve got the target coordinates computed for trajectory adjustment.”

                “Roger, sending,” Sherlock says as he presses a switch in John’s briefcase, which transmits the data from the PROM to Mycroft’s computer.

                “Hmmm,” Sherlock hears Mycroft say over the line.

                “What is it?” Sherlock asks, his tone sharp.

                “Oh, nothing, Mycroft says it’s fine,” Molly says hastily.

                John’s making adjustments to the laser assembly itself, when he hears noise outside the plane. “Shhh!” he hisses, waving a hand at Sherlock to get his attention. Sherlock immediately stops talking and waits while John checks the stairs. He motions to Sherlock to stay silent as he sees people walking under the plane. “All clear!” he hisses once they pass.

                “Replacing the PROM with our EEPROM,” Sherlock says, taking out the module they removed from the onboard computer and replacing it with a similar looking module, locking it in the data port with a small switch.

                “May I have the new trajectory coordinates, please,” Sherlock hears Mycroft say, and waits as Mike starts reading them off. He glances at John, and can’t contain the little grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock was definitely no angel, and this was going to be his biggest prank _ever_.

                “I’m gonna check the stairs,” John says. He gets halfway down before rushing back up, a look of panic on his face. “Sherlock, he’s coming! Moriarty’s coming!”

                Sherlock feels a jolt of adrenaline, but forces his face to remain calm; he doesn’t want to alarm John any further. “You may be interested to know that John has just informed me that Herr Professor is approaching,” he tells Molly casually.

                “What do we do?” John hisses, running back to the open briefcases and realizing that he can’t pack anything up until Mycroft’s finished transmitting the coordinates. Sherlock listens intently on the phone, apparently hearing what he needs, and then swiftly starts disconnecting everything. He takes the EEPROM out of the briefcase and installs it into the onboard computer. There’s no time to reattach the cover; they have to hide, and _now._ The boys hastily shut their briefcases and hide in a cramped storage locker near the cockpit just as Moriarty, Adler, and the technicians board the plane. John listens anxiously at the murmur of voices in the cargo bay, and waits at least a minute after he hears them recede before giving Sherlock the all-clear. They bail out of plane through the cockpit and take off across the tarmac, praying the shadows will conceal their escape.

         

* * *

 

 

                Jim lets out a slow sigh of frustration as he listens to Adler drone on about regulations and budget - things that are utterly meaningless to him. He can’t believe he’s actually being stonewalled by these _ordinary_ people. The system was designed to be tested from a spacecraft – why does the military insist on wasting time testing it from a jet? Belatedly he realizes that Adler is still talking, and he forces himself to listen. “…you didn’t think we’d blow all this money just to test it in space, did you?” he says smugly.

                Jim’s jaw tightens. “Well, actually, yes I did, because that’s what it’s designed for. But if in your infinite wisdom you think that we should learn to crawl before we walk, then that’s fine too.” He smiles, baring his teeth in what probably looks more like a snarl than a friendly gesture, but at this point he’s past caring. He delivered the laser on time. It really shouldn’t matter _what_ the military decides to do with it from this point. The problem is, Jim Moriarty wants to get out of teaching, away from the simple-minded students he’s forced to babysit for a paycheck, and his ability to retire from teaching depends heavily on the success of this demonstration.

                “Attention!” a young female staff sergeant calls out. “Superior officer in the room.”

                Jim forces himself not to roll his eyes as the military personnel all snap to attention and salute. An overly smug two-star general enters the command center. “As you were,” he growls. He is about to speak again when he is interrupted by a civilian technician.

                “Excuse me, we’re ready for the final onboard laser check,” she says.

                The general sighs. “Let’s get on with it, then,” he says, leading Adler, two other government officials, the laser tech, and Jim back out to the plane. Adler makes small talk with the general and two other bureaucrats as they exit the hangar and cross the tarmac, while Jim and the laser tech – who has already made it quite clear that she doesn’t like him at all – walk in stony silence behind. He hates this charade of subservience that these idiot military types insist upon from their civilian coworkers, but for now he must endure it.

                The group climbs aboard the plane and the tech starts her final checks of the laser, while Adler and the general continue their banter with the bureaucrats. Jim can’t imagine what more needs to be examined, and his patience is wearing thin. “The assembly is fine, what more do you need to check?” he finally snaps.

                The laser tech stands and faces him. “I’m doing my job, and I’d appreciate it if you’d respect that,” she says coolly.

                This exchange gets Adler’s attention, and he looks at Jim with a raised eyebrow. “Everything alright, Professor?” he asks.

                “Fine, just fine. Just having a – professional – discussion,” Jim covers smoothly, moving his gaze back to the insubordinate laser tech. “Does everything check out, _ma’am_?” he asks her with exaggerated politeness.

                “Yes, _sir_ ,” she replies, picking up her bag and stalking off. Jim leans against the equipment rack and rubs his forehead. All this forced politeness is really wearing on his nerves. He notices idly that the cover has been removed from the leftmost equipment rack. He doesn't think anything of it, until he notices what's on the floor in front of it.

                A PROM module.

                Scowling, he bends down to pick it up, checking the PCB in the equipment rack for some clue as to where it goes, but he can’t find an empty port. _What the hell…?_

                “Everything alright here?”

                Jim straightens up at the sound of Adler’s voice, smoothly pocketing the PROM in the process and arranging his face into a mask of bland indifference. “Why shouldn’t it be?” he asks nonchalantly.

                Adler nods as Jim walks away. “Well, I think that just about sums it up, don’t you? Shall we take our exit?” Adler says to the group.

                The group exits the plane, but there’s something niggling at the back of Jim’s brain. Something doesn’t seem right. The cover off the onboard computer rack, the orphan PROM… but no. Surely _he_ isn’t up to something…

                Jim stops short in the middle of the tarmac and whirls around. He doesn’t know what he expects to find, but he expected to find _something_. Some _one_. But there’s no one there, apart from the ground crew.

                “What is it?” Adler asks.

                Jim turns around and continues walking back to the command center. “Nothing.”

 

* * *

 

                Anderson is utterly lost. For the first time in his life, he has no direction, no goal, and no clue what he’s supposed to do next. After Sherlock and John solved the laser power issue, it was as if his world had shifted on its axis. Everything for which he’d worked so hard just disappeared – Jim’s favor, the Darlington job, his reputation, even his relationship with Sally. All gone in a moment, leaving Anderson with nothing but uncertainty.

                _And now I’m hearing Jesus in my head,_ he thinks glumly.

                It’s early morning; the sun has just started to rise, and Anderson is still awake, not having slept at all the night before. He’s sitting in the deserted common room of the dorm he lived in before graduation, in a pile of blankets and pillows on the sofa. He’d had a single room, unlike Sherlock and John, and therefore had to surrender the keys after graduation, but he snuck back into the building later that evening and has been camping in the common room ever since. He’s made frequent clandestine trips to the library, and is now surrounded by books about psychosis, religious possession, people who claim to have met God, and medical disorders of the ear. His previously tidy appearance is now decidedly disheveled, and he looks more like a homeless person than a college graduate with a bachelor’s degree in applied physics, complete with a patchy-looking beard.

                Anderson picks up another book, skims the table of contents, flips through a few sections, and throws the book aside in frustration. He hasn’t heard from “Jesus” in several days, and is now wondering whether or not he imagined it after all.

                **“Good morning, Anderson.”**

Anderson groans inwardly at the sound of the disembodied voice inside his head. “Oh, I thought you’d gone,” he says glumly.

                **“Not yet. Have you been touching yourself?”**

                “Yes – I mean, _no_ ,” Anderson quickly corrects himself.

                **“Good. Listen, Anderson. My father – you know, God – wants to show you something.”**

“Why – I mean, what?” Anderson asks suspiciously.

                **“I've learned not to ask,”** the disembodied voice booms ominously. **“He wants you to wait in front of Professor Moriarty’s house at 1609 Ivy Crest Drive at precisely 7:08 this morning.”**

                Anderson looks at his watch – it’s barely 6 a.m. now. “What for?”

                **“Just wait there, and you shall receive a sign. Do not despair and do NOT go inside.”**

“Wait – why not?” Anderson demands. He waits, but there’s no reply. “Hello? Hello, Jesus?” Another summer session student walks through the common room and looks at Anderson as if he's grown a third arm. Anderson smiles weakly. “He hung up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technical notes:  
> [PROM](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Programmable_read-only_memory) = Programmable Read-Only Memory. It's a 28-pin module that can only have data written to it once.
> 
> [EEPROM](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/EEPROM) = Electrically Erasable Programmable Read-Only Memory. Also a 28-pin module, this came along later and its individual bytes can be independently read, erased, and rewritten.
> 
> [PCB](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Printed_circuit_board) = Printed circuit board - a board used to connect electronic components using conductive tracks, pads and other features etched from copper sheets laminated onto a non-conductive substrate. Computer mainboards/motherboards, video cards, network cards, even the little circuit board inside your phone are all examples of PCBs.


	18. Acting on your best behavior, turn your back on Mother Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys love it when a plan comes together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I have one more chapter after this one. This chapter wraps up the storyline of the film, but I didn't feel right leaving our boys on that note, and I kept writing, and before I knew it I had one more chapter which I think you'll quite like. I'll have that posted later today, I promise! I'll also be making this part of a series so I can add the as-promised smutty epilogue; if you're interested in that, please subscribe to the series, as I don't have that written yet and don't know when it'll be done.
> 
> Unbeta'ed as usual. Thanks to all of you who have stuck with this fic since last May, it means the world to me!

                Sherlock and John get to Moriarty’s house at 6:45am in the plumber’s van, pulling it into a dry culvert on the other side of the road. Neither of them have slept in the past 24 hours, and while that’s not abnormal for Sherlock, John is on his last legs. As they get out of the van, Sherlock hands his friend a cup of coffee, cream no sugar, and takes a sip out of his own cup – black, two sugars – while they wait for the others to arrive.

                “Are you sure they’re going to come?” John asks.

                “Of course they are. Mycroft can be very – _persuasive_ ,” Sherlock replies, cocking an eyebrow for emphasis.

                John snorts softly. He has a feeling that “persuasive” roughly translates to “coercive” in Mycroft-speak. Both boys are keeping an eye on the road which is, from their current position, slightly above them. In spite of his shorter stature, however, John spies the car first.

                “They’re here,” he says, nudging Sherlock. Above them, a car stops short of the culvert, and Molly emerges with Dr. Lestrade. The professor is clad in pajamas, a plaid robe, and bunny slippers. John takes a look at Sherlock and grins.

                “Ah, Mr. Holmes. Why is it that I’m not surprised to see you here?” says Dr. Lestrade with an air of long-suffering. “And I assume that you have a very good explanation for rousing me out of bed for this so-called ‘event’ that we’re about to witness?”

                “Yes, sir, I do,” said Sherlock, his tone all business. “But first let me take this opportunity to compliment you on your fashion sense, particularly your footwear.”

                John and Molly chuckle as Dr. Lestrade looks down to see that Sherlock is wearing a matching pair of bunny slippers. The professor laughs. “Yes, well…” he starts, but trails off when another car approaches and parks behind Dr. Lestrade’s Mercedes. Mike gets out of the passenger side, and a man in a full suit gets out of the driver’s side.

                “Morning!” Mike shouts down to the assembled group, and John waves in response. The unidentified man approaches Dr. Lestrade and they shake hands.

                “Congressman Barrymore, what brings you out here this morning?” Dr. Lestrade asks.

                “Well I was told there was a situation here of critical international importance,” Barrymore says, as everyone turns to Sherlock.

                “Wasn’t me,” Sherlock replies offhandedly.

                “No, it was your brother, Mycroft,” the congressman says. “He and I have been in contact recently about the funds misappropriation he’s been investigating. I’m told that you and Mr. Watson here have been invaluable in helping him, is that true?”

                “Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper have also been – instrumental – in the investigation,” Sherlock says, sounding as close to embarrassed as John has ever heard him, and trying to deflect attention away from himself.

                “What funds misappropriation?” Dr. Lestrade asks, bewildered.

                “The use of government research funds for a highly classified and morally dubious project to build a small, portable, powerful and efficient laser which can vaporize a target from Earth orbit. However, Dr. Moriarty pocketed the funds for himself. He then directed his students to build the laser to his specifications, and when the laser was complete, he stole it and took it to a nearby military base for testing,” Sherlock replies, his tone all business.

                “Those are very serious allegations, Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Lestrade says solemnly.

                “Yes, sir, I know.”

                “This is what Mycroft told me as well, but as I told him, I’m going to need proof,” says Barrymore.

                Sherlock glances up at the sky. “Gentlemen, I believe we’ll be able to accommodate you both in just one minute.”

 

* * *

 

                At 6:45am, the aircraft carrying Sherlock and John’s laser, and Anderson’s tracking system, takes off from Baskerville Air Force Base. Out in the California desert, a mobile command center is parked and tracking the jet. Jim waits inside the command center with David Adler, the two-star general, the bureaucrats and assorted other enlisted personnel as a pilot hops into a cockpit simulator. Everyone’s attention is trained on Jim. This is the part of the game that Jim loves – controlling the room.

                “Now all weapons functions will be controlled from this command module just as they would be from space. In fact, this is an exact duplicate of the vehicle cockpit. The accuracy and the power will be as exact,” Jim says confidently.

                “Crossbow, open bomb bay doors,” says a technician sitting at one of the monitoring consoles. Jim monitors the aircraft from another screen. A camera is mounted inside the cargo bay, giving him a perfect view of the laser as it lowers into position.

                Behind him, the pilot in the command module is tracking the target. After a few moments, he has a lock. “Target locked. In ten, nine, eight…”

                Jim smiles. _Almost time._

* * *

 

                Anderson arrives at 1609 Ivy Crest Drive at 7:05am. _Better to be a little early when the Almighty tells you to report somewhere for a divine signal,_ he reasons, and laughs nervously. He’s still confused as to why Jesus told him to come to the professor’s house but not to go inside. He figures he’ll give Jesus one last chance to tell him; otherwise he’s going in, deity be damned.

                Anderson walks up the front porch steps and stops in front of the door. “Now you listen to me, Jesus. This is Jim’s house, and we’re very close. So if you’re not going to answer me, then I’m just going to have to go in.”

                He waits for a moment, then two, then three. No one says anything. The only noise on this clear morning is the sound of a light breeze and the chattering of birds. He checks his watch. 7:08 on the dot.

                “Right, I’m going in,” he says. He fishes his spare key – the one that Jim didn’t know he’d made – out of his pocket, and unlocks the door. But just as he’s about to go inside, he hears several voices shouting from behind him, across the street. He turns around, and is mildly surprised to see Sherlock, John, Mike, Molly, Dr. Lestrade, and another man he doesn’t recognize. The four students are shouting and waving their arms; the two adults look confused.

                “No, Anderson! Don’t go inside! Don’t do it!”

                Anderson shrugs and turns back around, entering the house. What’s the worst that could happen, after he’d already lost his mind?

                Maybe he spoke too soon.

                There, in Jim’s foyer, was a large circular object completely covered in aluminum foil, standing roughly four feet high. Anderson stands a couple feet away and tentatively reaches out to touch it. It crinkles, as one would expect of aluminum foil, but nothing else happens. He raises his arms in supplication.

                “Okay, God, let me have it!” he yells into the silence of the house.

                And waits.

                At first nothing happens, but then he notices a bright light outside, getting closer to the stained glass window on the second floor landing. The light dances over the window for a few seconds, and then the window shatters as the wide purple beam of light cuts through.

                Not a light. A _laser._

                The laser disintegrates the railing on the second floor landing and strikes the foil object in the foyer. Anderson backs away, frightened, then throws his head back and closes his eyes, resigned to whatever fate the Lord has in store for him.

                It’s the popping sound that catches his attention. A very distinctive popping sound, very familiar. It’s coming from the foil-covered object, which is now swelling in size. A shower of white particles spits out from the object and hits Anderson in the face. He winces, then bends down to examine the particles, and that’s when it all comes together in his sleep-deprived brain.

                “Popcorn!” he exclaims, and pops a kernel into his mouth. With his braces, he’s not supposed to have popcorn, but at this moment he could care less. He’s hit in the face with another shower of kernels, and the top of the foil-covered object splits open as an avalanche of popcorn pours out. It’s going everywhere – it’s a tidal wave of kernels – and Anderson stands there, dumbfounded and unable to move.

 

* * *

 

                Jim watches the progress of the demonstration as he stands next to the command module, when he realizes that the shot did not, in fact, hit the automated motorcade trundling through the desert as it was supposed to. The smug, satisfied look on his face changes to one of horror.

                “Oh no…” he breathes. He launches himself at the monitoring station. “I don’t understand, did it fire?” he demands of the laser tech.

                “Yes, we indicate a shot. We’ve got another problem, though. The laser’s not shutting down!” the technician says.

                “Not shutting down?” Jim echoes weakly.

                “Yes!” the tech barks.

                David Adler walks up behind him. “Jim, what the hell is going on?” he growls.

                Jim ignores him. He doesn’t have time for this. “Shut it down! Shut the laser down!” he barks at the technician.

                Yes, I’m trying, doctor!”

                “Shut it down now!” Jim shouts again, panicking. He glances up at the monitor for the camera in the aircraft’s cargo bay. The laser has caught fire, and most of the mobile command center staff are transfixed.

                Jim moves quickly to the command module cockpit. “Out!” he shouts, and the pilot scrambles out of his way. Jim takes a seat in the module. “Unlock the bird’s-eye!” he orders.

                The pilot flips a switch on a nearby console. “Unlocked!”

                David Adler is hovering over Jim’s shoulder, waiting for an explanation. “I’m tracking where the shot went,” he explains rapidly to Adler. Under his breath, he mutters, “It worked, I know it worked.” But the view on the monitor in the cockpit is not of the automated motorcade.

                “Oh, fuck.”

                It’s his house. And there’s popcorn coming out of every door and window.

                Adler is not amused. “What the hell have you done??”

                For once, Jim is speechless.

 

* * *

 

                Sherlock, John, Molly, and Mike watch helplessly outside Moriarty’s house as it fills up with popcorn. Molly jumps as the windows break, and popcorn pours out of every opening. They run up to the front gate but don’t dare get any closer; even from here they can see that the front door is going to give way at any moment. Seconds later it does, falling forward as if someone had disconnected it from its hinges. A torrent of popcorn pours out of the doorway, and eventually, so does Anderson, tumbling ass-over-teakettle down the porch stairs and landing face down on the sidewalk, the upper half of his body buried in popcorn.

                “Anderson!” John shouts as he and Sherlock vault the gate and rush to free Anderson from his carbohydrate prison. Sherlock pulls on his legs while John digs into the mound of kernels and finds Anderson’s arms. Between the two of them they get him out and upright. He looks at Sherlock and John as if they are the two most precious people in the world.

                “Anderson, are you okay?” Sherlock asks.

                “Hey guys, that was great!” Anderson says, a big smile on his face. Sherlock and John exchange a questioning glance and lead him away from the now-unstable structure of the house. Back on the relative safety of the street, they notice that quite a crowd has assembled around the house from the neighboring homes, some people even bringing wheelbarrows over to collect the abundant and free popcorn. Suddenly there is a great creaking sound, the sound of wood being stressed beyond its limits, and John looks up to see that the roof is raising up and off of the two-story house, popcorn pouring out of the attic like a great waterfall. The deck on the side of the house completely gives way. The house is disintegrating before their very eyes as the popcorn continues flow out of every crack and crevice.

                A car horn honks behind them, and Sherlock and John turn around. There, in an unmarked black sedan with US Government plates, is Mycroft, with Anthea in the passenger seat. Mycroft parks the car along the curb and gets out, Anthea following. He levels an exasperated glare at Sherlock, who meets it with cool indifference. Mycroft rolls his eyes in response.

                “Mycroft Holmes, I wasn't expecting to see you here. Is this your doing?” Congressman Barrymore asks, extending a hand to the elder Holmes.

                Mycroft shakes the congressman’s hand. “Not exactly,” he admits. “I’m afraid I overestimated my little brother’s good judgment when I left this part of the planning up to him, but I trust you saw the laser shot which precipitated this…. _incident_.”

                “Absolutely. And I can assure you that we will be filing a formal report with the appropriations committee right away.”

                “I also have extensive paperwork detailing how Professor Moriarty used those misappropriated government funds to renovate his house, though I can see that it was a wasted effort after today,” Mycroft replies, casting another sidewise glance at Sherlock, who pretends not to notice. “At any rate, the professor will certainly not be teaching again anytime soon.”

                “I will personally see to that,” Dr. Lestrade says, interjecting himself into the conversation.

                “Ah, Gregory. Good to see you again.”

                “And you, Mycroft.”

                John looks at Sherlock, who refuses to meet his eyes. “Say nothing,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. John nods.

                Mycroft exchanges parting pleasantries with Barrymore and Dr. Lestrade, who head back to their vehicles now that the spectacle is over. The popcorn has finally stopped popping, and Moriarty’s front yard is a sea of white kernels. The neighborhood children jump in, laughing and shrieking as they throw popcorn at each other. Mycroft now turns his attention to his younger sibling.

                “Sherlock, don’t you think you went a little overboard?”

                “Absolutely not. As you said, he used the funds to renovate his house. I was merely… ensuring that he could no longer benefit from them,” Sherlock replies smoothly.

                Mycroft arches an eyebrow. “So it would seem. Well, now that this incident is over, Anthea and I will be returning to Washington. Do give Mom and Dad my love, little brother.”

                Sherlock winces at the use of the diminuitive; he is only an inch shorter than Mycroft, but the elder Holmes has always lorded it over him. “Yes, _big_ brother,” he sneers, getting his own dig in.

                Mycroft’s smirk fades, but he keeps his tone light. “And what do you intend to do now? Will you take the job at Darlington?”

                “I don’t think so,” Sherlock says. “I can’t see myself working a boring 9-to-5, wearing a suit every day, can you?”

                Mycroft eyes Sherlock carefully. “No, I really cannot,” he admits. “So the degree, the years at school, Mom and Dad paying for your education – you’ll just throw all that away?”

                “I didn’t say that. Fear not, Mycroft, all will be revealed in good time.”

                “If you say so. I’d love to continue this brotherly chat—“

                “No you wouldn’t, you hate it.”

                “—but we really do need to be going if we’re going to catch our flight. Do stay out of trouble, Sherlock.”

                “No promises.”

                Mycroft nods, expecting no more or less from Sherlock, and he and Anthea get back into the car and drive away. Mike and Molly have joined the kids playing in the popcorn dunes, the other neighbors are scattered about, and Sherlock and John find themselves in an oasis of calm for the first time in weeks.

                “So. You’re not taking the Darlington job,” John says, trepidation in his voice.

                “Nope," Sherlock replies with a smirk, popping the "p" for emphasis.

                “Right. So this is it then? You’re off to parts unknown?”

                Sherlock looks at John curiously. “What do you mean?”

                John clears his throat. “Well. You've got your whole life ahead of you. Obviously you have some master plan you haven't shared with me; besides, I still have three years of school left. Can’t imagine you wanting to hang around with a college kid, now that you’re out of school. Particularly not an underage college kid.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says offhandedly.

                John feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. What did he expect, really? “Right. Well, I guess it’s been nice knowing you,” John says stiffly, holding out his hand.

                Sherlock smiles. “Oh, John,” he sighs, shaking his head.

                John drops his hand, bewildered. “What? What’d I do now?”

                Sherlock takes a step closer, and then another, until he’s completely in John’s personal space. “You see, but you do not observe,” he murmurs, as he lowers his head and kisses John.

                In public.

                In front of kids, and friends, and complete strangers.

                And John doesn’t care. He wraps his arms around Sherlock, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s tousled curls, and kisses him back fervently.

                It’s going to be alright.


	19. Everybody wants to rule the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! This is the end, thank you so much for sticking with me! Remember, there IS a smutty epilogue planned as a separate fic in this series; if that's not your thing, then thank you so much for reading this and I hope you enjoyed it. However, if you'd like to see our boys get a little more intimate, please subscribe to this series so you're alerted when the fic is posted. I hope to get it written soon, but I can't make any promises.
> 
> Again, this is unbeta'ed, all mistakes are mine.

              They’re walking home in the twilight after dropping off the plumber's van; the sun has dipped just below the horizon, but the sky is on fire. Sherlock and John brush against each other as they walk, but both are silent, pondering the day’s events, and where they will go from here.

              “You think so loudly,” Sherlock says, his voice laden with amusement.

              “Can’t help it,” John shrugs. “I’ve a lot to think about.”

              “Such as?”

              “Well – for one thing, what are you going to do now?”

              “Are you alluding to the 'big master plan' you accused me of having?” Sherlock says with mock sarcasm.

              “I suppose so. Care to share?”

              "Yes, well, as you correctly guessed, I _have_ been planning something for a while now."

              "Yeah, alright Sherlock, enough with the dramatic build-up. _Just tell me._  "

              Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to be a physicist,” he says, letting the words out like a sigh.

              “Ooooo-kay,” John says slowly. “What _do_ you want to be?”

              There’s no answer, and John takes a few steps before he realizes that Sherlock isn’t beside him. He stops and turns around to see Sherlock standing stock still in the middle of the sidewalk. John walks back to him and takes his hands. “Sherlock?”

              “I think that’s the first time someone asked me what I wanted to be, instead of telling me what I should do,” he murmurs, looking down at his and John’s joined hands.

              “You can be whatever you want,” John says, slightly bewildered. “So what do you want to be?”

              “A detective.”

              John blinks. “A detective.”

              “Yes. Well, you know how I am, how I can’t help but notice things about people, and places, and the world around me. And I enjoy figuring things out. These past few weeks, it’s been like working on a case, and I had more fun than I’ve had in a long time. So – yeah. I want to be a detective.”

              “So you want to join the police force,” John says doubtfully.

              Sherlock makes a face. “Hell no. I don’t want people telling me what to do.”

              “So, how—“

              “I’ll be a consulting detective. I’ll take private cases, and help the police when they’re out of their depth. Which is always.”

              “Right,” John says skeptically.

              Sherlock drops one of John’s hands but holds on to the other as he continues walking, with John practically tripping over his own feet to catch up. He feels Sherlock lacing his fingers between his own. “When I met with Dr. Lestrade to tell him about Moriarty, he and I ended up talking about my post-graduation plans. He has a friend, a guy named Gregson, who’s a detective in the Pasadena police department. Said he’d put in a good word for me.”

              “Well, that’s – that’s great for you,” John replies. “And where will you live, with your parents?”

              “I found an apartment in Pasadena. It’s not much, it’s above a bike shop, but it’s nice and the shop owner owes me a favor, so she’s giving me a deal on the rent. But I still need a roommate. It’s only a couple miles from campus, actually, so…” Sherlock trails off, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

              “So?” John prompts, knowing what he wants Sherlock to say, but not quite daring enough to hope.

              Sherlock looks like he’s gearing up for something, and when the words finally come out, they fall from his mouth with all the speed of a runaway train. “So I was wondering if you’d be interested in being my roommate. You can live off campus next semester, so it’s really just a matter of using the money you get for room and board to cover rent instead, but I checked it out and there’s a bus route, and a bike path and you can even walk if— _mmmph!_ ”

              Sherlock’s nervous rapid speech is cut off rather abruptly by John stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, grabbing Sherlock by the back of the neck and pulling him down into a searing kiss. Sherlock flails for a moment before wrapping his arms around John and giving as good as he’s getting. After several breathless moments they part, and John laughs softly as shock and joy fight for dominance in Sherlock’s expression.

              “You’re an idiot,” John says.

              “I am?” Sherlock says, his voice cracking in surprise.

              “Yeah, you are. _Of course_ I’ll be your roommate. You didn’t really have to ask, did you?”

              “Well, I didn’t want to assume…” Sherlock bites his lower lip.

              “So much for all that ‘observing versus seeing’ crap you keep spouting. As if you couldn’t tell already that I’d follow you to the ends of the earth,” John chides him gently.

              “You know I’m no good at this,” Sherlock mutters.

              “Yeah, well, that’s why you have me,” John says.

              Sherlock smiles, and pulls John into a warm hug. “John Watson, you keep me right,” he murmurs.

              They stand there for a moment, under the sodium glare of a streetlight, before continuing their walk. It’s then that John realizes they’re not heading toward campus at all. “Sherlock, where are we going?”

              “Well, I didn’t think you’d agree so readily, especially without seeing the apartment, so I thought I’d take you there tonight so you could see it and make an informed decision.”

              “Okay,” John says, looking at their surroundings. They turn off the main road onto Baker Alley. “So where is this place?”

              “Right here,” Sherlock says, stopping at a large metal door. The only marking on the door is the shop number, 221. Sherlock raises his fist and bangs on it twice, then waits. A few seconds later, an older woman unlocks the door and pushes it open. John has to stifle a giggle. Clearly this woman never made it out of the 1960s, judging by her long greying braids adorned with beads, her poet-sleeved blouse, bell-bottom jeans and Birkenstocks, and the distinct smell of cannabis wafting off of her. “Oh, Sherlock,” she says, pulling the taller boy down into a hug.

              “Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson, my friend,” he says, winking at her conspiratorially.

              Mrs. Hudson gives John a warm smile and hugs him too, which takes him a bit by surprise. “Oh, lovely to meet you, John. Come in, the place is just upstairs.” She leads them up seventeen steps to a door marked 221B, and opens it. John and Sherlock walk inside, and John slowly takes in the modest apartment. It’s an open floor plan, all exposed bricks and pipes. The kitchen is in one corner, and the bathroom is near it, though the walls for the bathroom stop a couple feet short of the exposed metal beams of the unfinished ceiling. The rest of the apartment is just wide open space with two large windows and a few support columns – and a lot of _stuff_ scattered about. Books, papers, a couple of squashy armchairs, a naugahide sofa that has seen better days, a table laden with test tubes, vials, graduated cylinders, and a microscope, and in one corner, a bed. Well, it _might_ be a bed; it definitely had a tangled pile of pillows, sheets, and blankets on it, but was little more than a mattress on a platform.

              Sherlock couldn't have picked a more perfect place if he'd tried.

              “Well John, what do you think?” Mrs Hudson asks.

              “This is very nice, very nice indeed,” John says, looking around approvingly, in spite of the mess.

              “Yes. Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely,” Sherlock agrees, smiling proudly.

              “As soon as we get all this stuff cleaned up—“

              “As soon as we finish moving in—“

              John stops and looks at Sherlock, who’s wearing his best approximation of a sheepish expression. “Well, obviously, I can, um, straighten things up a bit,” Sherlock says quickly, moving to pick up some papers and books from one pile and deposit them in another pile.

              John plops down in one of the armchairs, a threadbare red upholstered relic that has seen better days, but it conforms to him as if he’s had it forever. He watches Sherlock scurrying about, and decides not to torture the boy any longer. “Sherlock, relax. We can take care of this later.”

              Mrs. Hudson stands by the door. “I can get another bed in here, if you’ll be _needing_ two beds,” she says with a mischievous look.

              John looks at Sherlock. _Is it safe to tell her?_ he asks with his eyes. Sherlock answers with a small nod, and John relaxes.

              “No, Mrs. Hudson, one bed is fine,” Sherlock replies, abandoning his attempts at cleaning and sitting on the arm of John’s chair.

              John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s waist and smiles. “It’s _all_ fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really is a Baker Alley in Pasadena. The building numbers don't go up to 221, but I took artistic license on that. Google Maps street view really is a wonderful thing, though.


	20. Fanart!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fanart of Sherlock in his "I <3 Toxic Waste" t-shirt by the lovely [avawatson](http://avawatson.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!

The lovely [avawatson](http://avawatson.tumblr.com) on Tumblr ([abject on AO3](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/abject)) drew me art of Sherlock wearing his "I <3 Toxic Waste" t-shirt! This is referenced from the original movie poster, and I absolutely love it! Enjoy, lovelies!

Original post on Tumblr


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